


Under the Sun — Part One: The White Rabbit

by BabbleKing (Babblish)



Series: The Heart of Janus [1]
Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Assassination, Changelings, Character Study regarding Cognitive Dissonance and Self Policing, Child Soldiers, Child Spies, Conlang, Espionage, Historical drama, Intrigue, Kidnapping, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Monsters, Multilingual Characters, Murder, Period Typical Bigotry, Polyglot Characters, Queer Themes, The Janus Order is a Cult
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 27
Words: 81,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22675084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Babblish/pseuds/BabbleKing
Summary: AN OTTOBIOGRAPHY — Life in the Janus Order isn’t easy, but becoming its Grand Commandant is even harder.The year is 1798 AD and the youngish changeling Scaarbach is sent on a mission to accompany one of the Order’s best assassins through the Russian wilderness. Their goal? To track down a changeling who dared to defy the Order and take the traitor down. Scaarbach plans to end the mission in glory but life has some tricks up her sleeve that sends him spinning in a direction he never would have expected.
Relationships: Otto Scaarbach & Original Character(s), Otto Scaarbach/Original Character(s)
Series: The Heart of Janus [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1470869
Comments: 113
Kudos: 13





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Regarding The Use of Language: If you hover over the dialogue with your mouse, you can see it translated into the conlang I made for this fic, or at the very least the language that line was spoken. [More information about the Changeling language can be found on my blog here.](https://change-linguistics.tumblr.com/)
> 
> As far as I know, this option is unavailable for those reading along on their phones or tablet devices. I’m very sorry for those who are excluded by this but I know of no way around the technical limitations at this present time.

_Sprung from stone,_  
_hewed and torn,_  
_snatched and twisted,_  
_changeling born._

 _Sprung from flesh,_  
_snatched and bagged,_  
_hung and kept,_  
_familiar damned._

 _All was lost,_  
_all was gained._  
_Mirror’s edge,_  
_history pained._

 _Human flesh,_  
_Trollish stone._  
_All was taken,_  
_we wait alone._

 _The golden queen,_  
_her name don’t speak._  
_Ask not, ask not,_  
_for she we seek._

 _Our glorious mother,_  
_goddess eerie bound._  
_Skies of darkest night,_  
_ring of fire round._

 _Change is but the death of now,_  
_loyalty our solemn vow._

 _The dragon’s sanctuary sought,_  
_open doors as times are fraught._

— The Dragon.  
_Berlin, circa. 1660 AD_


	2. The Silver Bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To be clear, even though Nomura and Strickler aren’t in the tags, they _will_ turn up in this series eventually, just... not at this early point in the story. But for now, it’s 1798 and Scaarbach is trying to make a good first impression with the changeling assassin Kozlóv in St. Petersburg. The two head off in an attempt to track and take down a changeling who betrayed them all, but things get off to an icy start.
> 
> CW: Sexual References, References to Coercion into Marriage, Casual Mentions of Sterilisation

He was tall. That was the very first thing Scaarbach noted as they came face to face for the first time, or more accurately, face to coat buttons. Wölfin had mentioned in passing that Kozlóv was a venerable tower of a man, but Scaarbach had not truly understood what she meant by those words until that moment.

Scaarbach extended his hand, and then realising his error, removed a mitten and extended it again, “You’re Kozlóv, yes? Hello, I’m Scaarbach. I’ve been sent by the Strix to accompany you on your mission.”

The changeling looked him up and down, mostly down, “I am Kozlóv,” his voice was deep and gruff, and he seemed thoroughly unimpressed by what Scaarbach had to offer.

Scaarbach realised he wasn’t going to shake his hand and awkwardly put back on his mitten, “I wasn’t sure what to bring, sir, so I packed for winter and rough travel.”

Kozlóv grunted, “You look soft.”

Scaarbach bristled, “Don’t underestimate me Kozlóv sir, this isn’t my first mission.”

“Then follow me and don’t get in my way,” Kozlóv turned around and walked out the door, his gait confident.

Scaarbach followed him, dragging his things outside the humble pawn shop that obfuscated the St. Petersburg base of operations. He tried to haul his things onto the carriage that waited for them outside, Kozlóv lifting them from his arms as though they weighed next to nothing. It was a brisk morning and the horses seemed antsy, as though they could sense the gravity of their future mission. Scaarbach himself was impatient to leave. He’d been stagnating in his position in the chain of command and was eager to prove himself worthy of promotion. Being stationed at the European headquarters had its advantages, but it meant he was more likely to be overlooked when it came to the powers that be. Kozlóv, while apparently a gruff, pessimistic man, was an experienced changeling and reportedly an accomplished assassin. Scaarbach hoped that one day he could surpass the changeling’s reputation. He’d been a nobody for far too long.

⁂

Scaarbach sat next to Kozlóv in the carriage as they headed out of St. Petersburg on their way to their quarry’s last confirmed location. Kozlóv had said little after their brief introduction and Scaarbach could feel the tension radiating off the man like heat off of a raging fire.

“Her name was Velima, right sir?” Scaarbach asked, mostly to relieve the building silence.

Kozlóv nodded gruffly, his eyes glued to the road ahead.

“She was your captain, right sir, of the St. Petersburg base?” Scaarbach continued.

Kozlóv nodded again, his gruffness bordering on outright grumpy.

“It must be strange for you, sir,” Scaarbach mused, “I wonder what made her lose her stone? Do you know?”

Kozlóv shot him a look that stopped him in his tracks. It threatened pending violence if Scaarbach continued his train of thought.

Taking a hint, Scaarbach coughed awkwardly, “I suppose you don’t want to talk about that, sir,” he turned to face the scenery that passed them, a pleasant array of autumnal blobs, “I hope we find her before winter, the air already has a bite to it.”

Kozlóv chuckled and patted him vigorously on the shoulder, “Winter makes you hardy, keeps you from getting too soft.”

“Ha - ha, very funny, sir,” Scaarbach folded his arms defensively, “How long until we get to our next stop?”

Kozlóv frowned and looked ahead impassively, “Eight hours.”

“Ach, I hope it’s worth it,” Scaarbach groaned.

⁂

It was night by the time they arrived at the sleepy tavern. The two changelings had dragged their things in with them for security, leaving the carriage and horses in the care of the stable hand. Kozlóv paid for a single room and they retired wearily. As the senior operative Kozlóv took the bed, leaving Scaarbach to unpack his bedroll in the dark and sleep on the cold hard floor. It wasn’t long before Kozlóv was snoring and Scaarbach had no choice but to ignore him.

Scaarbach lay awake, staring in the direction of the ceiling, fantasising about the kill. He wondered what it was like to kill a fellow changeling. The Darklands had been rough before he had come to the surface, and he’d fought his hardest for the privilege to escape and prove himself, but that had been different. They were nothing but children then, desperate and inexperienced. Velima was no child, even by changeling terms she was a respectable age. Not quite as respectable as Sidonia or Wölfin, but experienced enough to pose a real challenge to someone like Scaarbach, and probably even Kozlóv. He couldn’t wait.

⁂

Darkness followed him, twisting dreams to nightmares. Half remembered memories and paranoia enfolding into mental prisons to escape before he could rouse and tackle the coming day. Scaarbach jerked awake, and instinctively looked around the room, ready to attack anyone who might have been lurking. Kozlóv nodded down at him politely, sharpening a dagger on his bed.

“What time is it, sir?” Scaarbach mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

“Dawn,” Kozlóv sheathed the blade and stood up, carefully stepping over Scaarbach as he made his way to the door, “Dress. I need to sort out the horses.”

Scaarbach yawned and did as he was told, folding up his bedroll and packing it away with the rest of his belongings. He readied himself for the day and sat patiently on the bed waiting for the changeling to return. Getting bored, he pulled out a notebook from his pack and doodled on it with a piece of charcoal. He lost track of time and looked up with a start as Kozlóv entered the room.

“Come with me,” Kozlóv barked, looking down at the book with disapproval.

⁂

The tavern was quiet as several patrons sat huddled in their corners, eyeing the changelings suspiciously. They ignored the glares and sat over their respective breakfasts quietly. Scaarbach was disinclined to say he was fond of unsweetened buckwheat porridge, but ate it without complaint. Kozlóv ate quickly, somehow managing to keep his white beard pristine. He sat, arms crossed, contemplating things Scaarbach could only guess.

“Do you think she’s far, sir?” Scaarbach wondered.

Kozlóv growled under his breath, “It’s too soon to tell.”

The two sat for a moment to consider the worst case scenario, “Where do you think she’s going, sir?”

“Velima is a private woman,” Kozlóv replied.

“We’re all private, sir,” Scaarbach scoffed.

Kozlóv shrugged, “East, away from the humans.”

⁂

For a week they travelled, approaching their quarry’s last known location at what felt like a snail’s pace. Kozlóv was a man of few words, and Scaarbach couldn’t help but fill the air with mindless chatter. It was all he could do to appease the anticipation of finally meeting the elusive Velima and taking her down for good. They approached the hut at midday. It was a humble affair, hidden away from humans who might come wandering but close enough to be a safe haven if changelings needed shelter.

Scaarbach searched through the hut, flicking through the pages of weathered books, turning over pots and furniture in the hopes of finding a clue. By accident he tripped over a stone on the floor and spotted a strange object under his foot. He picked it up and held it to his face, gasping softly as he realised what he was looking at.

“Kozlóv, come here sir! I found a rune stick!” Scaarbach yelled.

The changeling ran in from outside, “Read it,” Kozlóv ordered.

“My chains I used as weapons—” Scaarbach read, turning the stick over as he finished, “— but they cut into stolen flesh.”

Kozlóv frowned, “Give me that,” he examined the stick closely, “Wait outside.”

Scaarbach did as he was told, a flash of magic betrayed Kozlóv’s technically unsanctioned transformation. He half-heartedly wandered over to the horses to soothe their anxieties, his mind stuck on the words written on the rune stick. There was something about the words that made him intensely unnerved, they made him feel like the horses who pulled at the reins that kept them tethered to a convenient tree. There was another flash.

“Come back,” Kozlóv barked.

Scaarbach returned, “So, what now sir?”

Kozlóv sighed deeply, “I can confirm Velima wrote this rune stick.”

“Something tells me there’s more to it, sir,” Scaarbach replied, noting the deep furrows on the changeling’s brow.

“I can also confirm she was last here approximately a full month ago,” Kozlóv growled, his voice low and angry.

“Shit!” Scaarbach exclaimed, “That means she’s a month ahead of us.”

Kozlóv sat on the upturned bed, deep in thought, his face an impenetrable monolith.  
Scaarbach watched him patiently, unsure if his chatter would lighten the mood or warrant him a black eye, “So…?”

“So…,” Kozlóv sighed, “You will be staying here with the horses tonight.”

“And what will you be doing, sir?” Scaarbach asked nervously.

“Sniffing for clues,” Kozlóv replied gruffly.

“Is that safe?” Scaarbach wondered, “What if a human sees you?”

Kozlóv cracked his knuckles, “They won’t see me for long.”

⁂

With Kozlóv gone for the night, Scaarbach was free to do what wanted. He had tidied up earlier and found half a bottle of what he hoped was vodka. It wasn’t anywhere near enough to get him drunk, but he sat watching the flames dance in the fire, taking the odd swig, his mind miles away. Kozlóv had been positively irascible since he had stumbled upon the rune stick. He had been grumpy before this, but in the few hours before Kozlóv seemed as though he were ready to murder Scaarbach for the slightest non-offence. It made him suspicious. Scaarbach’s mind raced as he tried to think of a reason the changeling reacted in a such a way. It had to be related to Velima, but just what he couldn’t get a finger on. He tried to put himself in Kozlóv’s enormous shoes, trying to figure out what would make him angry about the rune stick. It had been melancholy nonsense. The kind young changelings spout when they first discovered the first tantalising glimpses of freedom that could be found on the surface in comparison to their old lives. A necessary stage that happened to everyone. But the mission had to continue, and rebellion meant the likes of Kozlóv on one’s tail, so everyone naturally got over it. Except for Velima, it seemed. Scaarbach wondered if Kozlóv was ashamed to have served under her. Perhaps even angry that she had betrayed them for such pitiful emotions.

He checked on the horses, ensuring they were secure and not likely to die in the night, and retired to bed. He wondered why hadn’t done so sooner. It wasn’t the best bed in the world, but it was warm and arguably soft, very definitely softer than the bedroll he’d been sleeping on for the past month. His mind quickly wandered back to Kozlóv and Velima. He thought of Magno, the only changeling he’d known personally to have gone rogue. When Scaarbach had heard he’d been killed, he didn’t feel much of anything. It was only later when the anger and disgust had came to him, seemingly at random. It probably wasn’t the same. Having one’s own captain lose their stone and being responsible for taking them out was probably different than what had happened with Magno.

⁂

Scaarbach had been dreaming, a pleasant dream for once, when the door to the hut was kicked open. He scrambled to his feet and held a knife out, instinctively ready to defend himself from the intruder. Kozlóv raised his hands in the dim light of the fire and sat on the only chair.

“Oh, it’s you, sir,” Scaarbach muttered, “Did you find anything?”

Kozlóv exhaled sharply, “She’s headed east.”

Scaarbach nodded in the darkness, “Uh…,” he said awkwardly, “I warmed the bed for you, sir.”

“Thanks,” Kozlóv replied, kicking off his boots.

Scaarbach redressed himself as his superior climbed into the bed to sleep for the remaining few hours of night. He sat on the chair, enviously watching the changeling as he snuggled under the blankets.

⁂

For two weeks they travelled, slowly getting further and further away from the higher populated areas. The roads had become rough, and the chill in the air lingered ominously. The promise of winter filled Scaarbach with dread. Kozlóv himself acted as though it were a pleasant spring day, although unfortunately his mood did not match his attitude towards the weather.

“It’s funny how it’s the little things you miss,” Scaarbach said, mostly to himself, “I miss the sound of people cooking in the kitchen, and sitting next to the fire with a good book.”

Kozlóv grunted dismissively by his side, his attention focused on steering the horses on the unfavourable road ahead.

“And beer,” Scaarbach sighed longingly, “Beer and sugar, and freshly baked bread and pastries. And music, I don’t care which kind, just all music. Not to mention clean clothes and fresh bedding, and a hot bath.”

“Soft,” Kozlóv mumbled under his breath.

“But the thing I miss most of all,” Scaarbach continued, ignoring his companion’s judgement, “The one privilege I never appreciate until it’s taken away, the ability to _shit_ without a damned audience.”

Kozlóv made a noise that might have been an amused snort, “You talk too much.”

“It’s not as though there’s much else to do, is there sir?” Scaarbach smirked.

Kozlóv tilted his head slightly, the barest acknowledgement that Scaarbach was right.  
“So what do you miss, sir?” Scaarbach asked, getting bold, “Some kind of food, your wife? Do you have a wife sir?”

“I had a wife, once.” Kozlóv frowned, “Her name was Nadya. She was an incomparably exquisite beauty, with dazzling blue eyes, strong thighs, and an _insatiable_ appetite. She bore me so many beautiful fat babies. I was very proud of her and the children.”

Scaarbach folded his arms, noting a flaw in his narrative, “But how did she…?”

“I never told her I knew she was having an affair with my brother,” Kozlóv sighed wistfully, “It was a beneficial arrangement, and as far as everyone was concerned I was their father.”

“I see,” Scaarbach remarked, quietly disgusted, “Wait, did you actually… _love_ them, sir?”

“She was the first tenderness I knew,” Kozlóv replied, his voice uncharacteristically mellow and poignant, “She taught me what it was to be a human, and a man.”

“How could you learn _that_ and not lose your stone?” Scaarbach wondered, already mentally planning for the wrong answer.

“I knew our time was short,” Kozlóv shrugged, “Didn’t the order instruct you to marry?”

“Of course they did,” Scaarbach scoffed, “But I didn’t _love_ her. She was just a pathetic human girl.”

“What was your ‘pathetic human girl’ like?” Kozlóv asked, judgement in his voice, “Didn’t she please you?”

“Please me?” Scaarbach laughed, “Hedwig was obedient, yes, to a fault actually. Obedient and kind. She wasn’t smart, or beautiful, or skilled, or rich. I pitied her, but she was useful, in her way.”

“You are soft,” Kozlóv grunted, “But you are cold.”

Scaarbach chuckled, “But I didn’t hate her, sir. In fact, I hated her the least of all the humans, but our marriage was… unsatisfying all the same.”

“I’m unsurprised, with that attitude,” Kozlóv frowned, “Did you even mourn her passing?”

“I was away when it happened,” Scaarbach began, “When I returned I had to be told by her family that she had taken ill with fever. So I packed up my things and returned to the Order, having learned nothing.”

Kozlóv shook his head, “She at least taught you the wonders of human flesh though, right?”

Scaarbach held back a laugh, “Not really, sir. I learned _that_ from a fellow changeling. That mission was _quite_ the education.”

“What could you have possibly learned you hadn’t figured out yourself?” Kozlóv asked.

Scaarbach took a deep breath, and carefully removed a single mitten, and the smaller glove underneath. He then held his hand out and demonstrated in the air, brow raised knowingly.

Kozlóv burst into uproarious laughter, “No wonder your wife didn’t please you! She wouldn’t have _known_ to do that!”

“Up until then I had assumed everyone was exaggerating about human sins,” Scaarbach grinned, putting his glove and mitten back on, “But it turned out I had been doing it wrong the _whole_ time.”

“You are a funny little man,” Kozlóv laughed, patting him vigorously on the shoulder, “You talk far too much but you make me laugh.”

“Thank you sir,” Scaarbach beamed.

“I am dying to know, who was the changeling?” Kozlóv asked.

“His name was Magno. Do you remember that name?” Scaarbach replied, trying to sound unaccusatory.

Kozlóv groaned, “Ah, yes. I am sorry. That was me.”

“He was a traitor,” Scaarbach shrugged, “Unpleasant business, but most of what we do is.”

“Apart from the——” Kozlóv held out his hand and repeated the act Scaarbach had demonstrated.

Scaarbach smirked, “Well, _most_ of what we do.”

Kozlóv went silent again, seemingly lost in thought, “What is your name?” he asked.  
“Scaarbach, I told you,” Scaarbach replied, suddenly confused.

“No, your proper name,” Kozlóv corrected.

“Why?” Scaarbach wondered.

“Codenames are impersonal,” Kozlóv stroked his white beard thoughtfully, “We are going to be shitting in each other’s company for many months you know.”

“Oh,” Scaarbach rarely brought up his actual name with his superiors, he generally worked under the impression they all secretly knew, “Ottokar, my human name is Ottokar Bach.”

“Ottokar,” Kozlóv repeated, making the name seem thick and decadent, “My name is Aleksandr Kozlóv, but I would prefer if you call me Sasha.”

“Sasha,” Scaarbach frowned, “Are you sure sir? It feels… disrespectful.”

Kozlóv patted him on the shoulder, “Maybe not in front of the Order, yes?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cannot begin to describe how exciting is to _finally_ be at the point where I’m sharing this fic of many names. It’s going to be a big project but I’m already a significant way ahead into the plot and if all goes well, I’ll be onto the next one before I know it. 
> 
> I always love hearing from people who read my stuff, so don’t feel shy about leaving a comment or even just an emoji if that’s all you can think to share.


	3. Onwards to Siberia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After learning that the rogue changeling Velima is headed for a sanctuary she believes in hidden within Siberia, Scaarbach and the changeling assassin Kozlóv have no choice but to follow. On the way they discover just how desperate Velima has become and Scaarbach learns what he’s capable of when under orders.
> 
> CW: Death, Murder, Implied Bigotries and Prejudices; Largely of the Misogynistic and Xenophobic Nature, Darklands Baggage

It was a bitterly cold morning. Scaarbach wasn’t sure how much longer Kozlóv could keep the horses going. The cold was one thing, but they were working the creatures hard in an attempt to at least minimise the increasing distance between themselves and Velima. Scaarbach huddled up, wondering how much more time it would take for them to catch up to her, if they could catch up to her. The carriage slowed and abruptly came to a halt. Kozlóv gestured in the direction of something dark by the side of the road.

“What is it?” Scaarbach wondered, squinting at something that could barely be considered a shape.

“Look for yourself,” Kozlóv growled irritably.

Scaarbach slid out of the carriage and crunched over to the dark shape. He bent over and nudged it gently with his boot, “Oh,” he said to himself bleakly, “It’s a human!” he yelled, turning the body over so it faced him, “An old man by the looks of him!”

“Shit,” Kozlóv growled, “Look for wounds!”

“Thanks,” Scaarbach sighed, not cherishing the prospect. He pawed around the body, finding the cause of death within seconds, “Ah, throat cut from behind, of course. Does Velima kill from behind with a blade?” he yelled out to Kozlóv still seated in the carriage.

“That’s her!” Kozlóv yelled back, sliding from his seat and leading the horses forward.

Scaarbach stood up, straightening his back, “If there’s one—”

Kozlóv handed the reins to Scaarbach and wandered over to a nearby cottage. He kicked with his foot on something on the ground and made a deep guttural noise, “Found another.”

“Same wounds?” Scaarbach wondered.

Kozlóv grunted in agreement, “A woman,” he bent over to examine the body further, “Same wounds,” he turned to face the house, “I’m going to investigate. Keep the horses calm until I get back.”

“Yes sir,” Scaarbach replied.

Scaarbach gave the horses a quick check to ensure everything was in order, and then climbed back on the carriage. It was frustrating to constantly be behind his quarry, he fantasised about what would happen if Kozlóv stumbled upon Velima inside the cottage. She’d panic, and try to defend herself, probably run outside into the open where Scaarbach was waiting. He’d chase after her with the horses and run her down. As she lay injured on the snow, he’d pull out his blade and cut her throat. The horses would probably run away, taking their supplies with them, and Scaarbach himself would be left covered in blood in the freezing cold. He sighed, it wasn’t the glorious and triumphant victory he’d been hoping for. Still it’d be enough for promotion. He hoped it’d be enough for promotion.

Kozlóv returned, stomping gruffly in the snow, “She’s headed for Siberia.”

“What? How do you know?” Scaarbach asked.

Kozlóv thrust another rune stick towards Scaarbach, “There’s rumour going around that there’s a small colony of changelings who escaped the Order. She told me about it herself.”

“I hear tales of sanctuary in the East—” Scaarbach read, “— a place we can be free,” he sighed, “Siberia is a long way away.”

“Come down from there, I’ll tie up the horses and you go inside,” Kozlóv ordered.

Scaarbach slid down from the carriage and handed his superior the reigns, “Yes sir.”

The cottage hadn’t long been abandoned. Kozlóv had kicked down the door which implied it had been barred or even locked from the inside. It was strange, Scaarbach mused, wondering if Velima had been the one to do it. He wandered around, trying to locate the reason for why he felt so on edge. There was a hushed, sharp sound, and Scaarbach spun on his heels, fumbling for his knife with bemittened hands. A small child stared up at him, holding a meat cleaver as he trembled violently. Scaarbach put his knife back away, and lunged forward, trying to disarm the frightened little boy. The boy shrunk back, his eyes wide. Scaarbach sighed.

“He told me his mother and grandfather were killed by a monster,” Kozlóv explained, entering the cottage, “A vicious demon with stone for skin.”

“Velima let the boy go?” Scaarbach wondered, “What was she thinking?”

“She didn’t know he was there. The boy hid. He’s been hiding for two weeks,” Kozlóv grunted, “He doesn’t know we’re not human.”

“Good,” Scaarbach nodded, “Two weeks is good. It means we’re gaining on her.”

Kozlóv put a heavy hand on his shoulder from behind, “He has family not far from here.”

“So? What does that ha—— Oh, oh I see,” Scaarbach frowned disapprovingly, “But the child is a liability, he saw Velima sir, and surely the mission should take priority over a single human boy?”

“Hmm, yes,” Kozlóv replied thoughtfully, “You’re right, of course. Kill him quickly and we’ll leave straight away.”

“Yes sir,” Scaarbach replied, looking down at the boy who took another step back, “Come on,” the boy yelped and thrust out the meat cleaver defensively, “I’m just going to…,” Scaarbach fished about for his knife and paused, the boy panting heavily in fear.

“What are you waiting for, Ottokar?” Kozlóv demanded gruffly.

Scaarbach took a step towards the boy, removing the mitten from his right hand, “Give me the knife, little boy,” he demanded in what he hoped was a kind and patient tone.

Kozlóv translated to the child, the boy seemed to protest slightly but gave in, handing over the meat cleaver, “He wants to know why you can’t speak Russian like a normal person.”

“I’m not a normal person,” Scaarbach laughed, examining the meat cleaver’s blade.

Kozlóv relayed his reply to the child, who then asked another question, “He wants to know what you’re going to do with it.”

“Nothing,” Scaarbach replied, looking at the pathetic little thing. He tried to stay cool, regardless of his size or age, the boy was still nothing more than a human. He would tell others about what he saw, out changelings to the world. For all the fight he had left in him, he’d be nothing to a changeling, or even a regular human adult.

“He’s still breathing, Ottokar,” Kozlóv reminded him, a brusque voice from above.

Scaarbach looked at the pathetic child and begrudgingly accepted his weakness, “Fuck!” he exclaimed, turning to look up at Kozlóv seething with disgust at himself, “He’s just a little boy,” he grimaced, “People probably won’t believe him anyway.”

Kozlóv crossed his arms, looming over him like a great tower of judgement, “You’re disobeying my direct orders?”

“Yes,” Scaarbach replied, looking up into where he believed Kozlóv’s eyes would be, “I’m sorry, sir,” he wondered if Kozlóv would leave him behind with the child. It’d be a fitting fate for his cowardice.

“You can’t even kill a tiny defenceless child?” Kozlóv asked, his voice lilting with humour and something else Scaarbach couldn’t read.

“Oh I can do it sir, but—” Scaarbach turned back at the little boy who stood watching them, still shaking with fear, “— it doesn’t feel right.”

Kozlóv exhaled, his body deflating, “Good. Needless suffering isn’t our job. We’re going to take what valuables we can and escort the child back to his family. Do not question how long this will take, we’ll make up for it later.”

Scaarbach looked at his feet, “You were testing me,” he concluded, “Did I pass?”

“No,” Kozlóv chuckled, patting him on the shoulder, “It doesn’t matter what I think. Do you think you passed?”

“You surprise me sir,” Scaarbach said quietly, “I thought… you told me to kill him?”

“I wanted to see if you’d really do it,” Kozlóv admitted, “I know different changelings have different methods, but the only rule of the Code worth listening to is the third.”

Scaarbach brightened up, understanding exactly the lesson being imparted, “Oh yes! I agree, sir! I’ve never been more relieved.”

Kozlóv laughed, “The look on your face, Ottokar. You thought I lost my stone, didn’t you?”

Scaarbach chuckled awkwardly, “I was worried.”

⁂

The two changelings ransacked the cottage for food and anything of value small enough to carry, adding it to their carriage stocked with supplies. It took the rest of the morning until they were ready to embark again. Scaarbach waited on his seat, watching Kozlóv speaking with the boy as they made their way passed the location his mother and grandfather had been killed. The changeling lifted the boy onto the front of the carriage and hauled himself up.

“Ottokar, open your coat,” Kozlóv grunted, seizing the reins.

Scaarbach grimaced, “Why sir?”

“There’s no room for the three of us, and the boy will get cold,” Kozlóv explained, gesturing at the small child.

“Ew, sir are you suggesting I… swaddle him? Under my coat? _While_ I’m wearing it?” Scaarbach gasped, utterly horrified.

“What are you afraid of?” Kozlóv chuckled, “He’s seven years old, perfectly house-trained.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Scaarbach muttered, fumbling with his coat.

⁂

By the Lady’s grace, the child quickly fell asleep, snuggled under Scaarbach’s thick coat. He was uncomfortable, as one would expect under the circumstances, and Scaarbach was pretending he didn’t notice Kozlóv’s occasional spontaneous chuckles. It was embarrassing. If anybody at the Berlin headquarters heard about it, he’d be a laughingstock for months. He expected they’d probably stash baby bonnet’s in his bedding and snicker behind their hands whenever they saw him. The only bonus, as far as he could see, was that the child was keeping him toasty warm.

They approached another building, not a grand estate but clearly well managed and with stables. A couple men ran up when they saw their approach, immediately suspicious of the strangers. Scaarbach nudged the boy awake and helped him down when they came to a complete halt. The child ran to the men, yelling something Scaarbach had no hope of understanding. The men angrily yelled out to Kozlóv, who replied in turn. He hopped out of the carriage and spoke with them, still holding the reigns in his hands. There was something about the men that made Scaarbach nervous, so he opted to return to his seat on the carriage. After a few minutes, Kozlóv hulked his way back and leant on the carriage.

“Little boy told them we saved him from a monster that took his family,” Kozlóv explained, “He also told them you’re weird and you smell like old socks and wet dog.”

Scaarbach rolled his eyes, “Of course the child did.”

“Get out, they’re letting us stay the night,” Kozlóv slapped him convivially on the knee, “I hope you’re ready to work!” he laughed.

Scaarbach wasn’t exactly sure what work they possibly expected him to do, but he wasn’t looking forward to inevitable laughter that was going to ensue, “Always sir.”

Kozlóv helped Scaarbach remove the bare essentials from their carriage and dump them in the living area of the boy’s family. The interior of the house was not unlike that of the boy’s, all though it had more in the way of size and occupants. Scaarbach warmed his hands by the fire as Kozlóv spoke to one of the men, their voices low and serious. Kozlóv returned to him, crouching down to get on his level.

“I’m going with the humans to help them repair damage to their stables,” Kozlóv explained.

“What am _I_ to do, sir?” Scaarbach wondered, as it happened, he had worked in stables when he was a young changeling and was no stranger to a hammer and nail.

Kozlóv turned to the humans and asked them a question, they replied in laughter, “I told them you’re soft and would rather not work out in the cold,” he chuckled, “They say you can help the women with the cooking.”

“Must I, sir?” Scaarbach groaned.

“Yes, you need to make sure they don’t go through our things,” Kozlóv frowned, “The rune sticks are in my pack.”

Scaarbach sighed, “Yes sir.”

After Kozlóv had explained to the women what was happening, and the laughter had died down, Scaarbach was handed a knife and vegetables and shown how to peel as though he had never fed himself a day in his life. He peeled the vegetables in bitter silence, keeping an eye on their belongings as best he could. Every now and again the old woman he assumed was the grandmother of the family would slap him on the arm and berate him for presumably not doing things to her satisfaction. Unable to understand a word she was saying he had to guess what it was he was doing wrong and adjust, but nothing he did seemed to please her. The other women giggled softly under their breath and said things he assumed were jokes at his expense. After he had finished peeling the final potato he left the knife embedded in the spud, and left to take a breath of fresh air outside. 

He wandered the circumference of the house, taking interest in nothing in particular, trying to calm his temper. He leant on a wall and closed his eyes for a second, hearing the soft crunches of someone approaching. As he opened his eyes a hand shoved him aside and he struggled to catch himself in time. He couldn’t see the man’s face but knew from the voice that spat angrily at him that it wasn’t Kozlóv. The man shoved him again, rougher and more aggressively than before, speaking fast. Scaarbach had no choice but to try and evade him, knowing it’d be foolish to pick a fight in that situation. He swung a punch, narrowly missing Scaarbach’s head, and grabbed hold of his coat, hauling him into the air against the wall. The man spat in his face, and by the sounds of things, probably called him some very unflattering names. A deep thundering voice yelled from the distance and the rest of the men came running over. The man let Scaarbach fall to the ground, shoving him one last time before yelling at the other men. Kozlóv said something, towering over the man angrily, and listened to him stammer his response. One of the other men clipped the younger man across the back of the head, saying something that sounded like a reprimand.

“What’s that disgusting creature’s problem?” Scaarbach demanded bitterly, brushing his coat as though he could rid it of the traces of the human.

“You left your post,” Kozlóv grunted.

“I’m sorry sir, but what was that?” Scaarbach glared at the man in disgust, “I’ve done nothing!”

“He accuses you of having something to do with the death of the boy’s mother, and question why I would travel with a foreigner so willing to do women’s work,” Kozlóv growled under his breath, “He thinks your interest in the boy is worth bringing into question. That you have some kind of hidden agenda.”

“My interest? I couldn’t care less about the human infant! I wasn’t so willing to do ‘women’s work’ and even if I was, it’d be none of this human’s business!” Scaarbach spat defensively.

“I told him you are my brother-in-law, and we are searching for your wife who broke her wifely oath with another man,” Kozlóv explained, “They believe this story, but Mikhail has his doubts.”

“He needs to mind his own business,” Scaarbach muttered.

“And you need to mind ours,” Kozlóv reminded him.

⁂

It was late, or possibly early, the difference between the two semantic at best. Scaarbach lay awake on the floor, listening to the crackle of the fire and the familiar snores of Kozlóv who lay beside him in his own bedroll. He was never comfortable in the company of strangers, especially humans, even people who he knew well put him on edge when he tried to sleep. Whether it was an overactive imagination or strong survival instincts he could never decide, but there was absolutely no chance he was going to give them the opportunity. Kozlóv it seemed didn’t have the paranoia, but it made some level of sense. In both forms he was a sizeable, commanding individual with unspoken gravitas, and few, human or troll, would be foolish enough to take him on in any circumstance. Scaarbach was jealous. He had neither size, command, nor gravitas. He made what he had work to the best of his ability, but just _once_ he wanted to feel what it was like to just… be like him. Kozlóv had probably never had a human attempt to mug him on his way home, or had to fight to just even stay alive in the Darklands as a whelp. Other than being a changeling, Kozlóv seemed to have all the breaks in life. People probably fell at his feet wherever he went, hanging off every word he said in his luxuriously deep and booming voice. 

Scaarbach realised his companion’s breath was becoming increasingly rapid and shallow, and snuggled down, pretending to be asleep. Kozlóv bolted upright and lunged at Scaarbach, eyes glowing in the light of the fire. He glared at him, eyes vacant but somehow desperate, still clearly half asleep, his hands grasping Scaarbach’s shoulders so tightly he was sure they’d be bruised by morning. He averted his eyes. Kozlóv slumped and then rolled back into his bedroll, back facing Scaarbach. The silence between them formed a deep canyon of words they’d never dare say. Nobody ever spoke about the nightmares. Nobody ever wanted to admit to their weaknesses. But in situations where two or more changelings were forced to sleep in each other’s company it was hard to ignore. They absolutely ignored it, but it was active ignoring, a gesture of respect, embarrassment, and internalised shame. Scaarbach wasn’t one for what he considered sentimental nonsense, but he knew exactly what Kozlóv was feeling in that moment. He was probably convinced Scaarbach thought lesser of him for it, which in some ways was true, but mostly he was wondering what demons haunted his superior. It was almost outrageous that someone like Kozlóv had anything to fear, in fantasy as well as reality. But they all knew that higher powers existed that they could only dream of. The Janus Order wasn’t a clique for over-privileged human nobles, they served higher powers, they were made by them, it was their _entire_ purpose.

⁂

They managed to leave around midday the next day. Kozlóv used some of his magic to get the humans into exchanging the carriage for a speedier sleigh, and it had only taken almost all of their money and half of their dried meat to do it. They hadn’t really spoken since the day prior. Scaarbach didn’t want to bring up what had happened during the night, but he couldn’t get it out of his head. He didn’t want to bring it up, and he especially didn’t want to explain why it stuck, but he couldn’t look at Kozlóv without remembering the blank, desperate expression as he held him down. It was awkward. Kozlóv couldn’t know what he was thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My understanding of Russian norms in the late 17th Century is _extremely_ limited (something I assume is blatantly obvious to people with more knowledge than myself) however, I believe it is most likely that the humans the trio encountered in this chapter are part of what’s translated into English as being part of the "Serf" class. From what I understand, they don’t own the land or the building or much of anything if at all, they are merely employed to manage it. In hindsight this would make the switch of mode of transportation problematic for them with the actual owners (who I imagine have a much estate happening in the overall area.) 
> 
> I allowed this to happen because I needed to move the plot forward and not get caught up on the minor details instead of writing. In this particular subject I found English resources far and few between, and what I could from them was vague at best. HOWEVER if you know of an English source that goes into detail about Serfdom, Ownership and Class structures in late 17th Century Russia I would be eternally grateful if you could point me in the right direction.


	4. The Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are becoming bleak and to make matters worse, the changeling assassin Kozlóv discovers that Scaarbach is even less equipped for the mission than anyone thought possible.
> 
> CW: Animal Death, Guns, Hunting Animals for Food, Mentions of Trapping, I really can’t stress enough how not vegan this story is

As winter approached, the weather unsurprisingly took a turn for the worst. Despite their best efforts, it had taken one of the horses. Thanks to Kozlóv handing over a significant portion of their meat supply it had come as a mixed blessing. They didn’t have the time to sit around and dry it properly, so they had gorged themselves on unseasoned horse meat. It had been tough and flavourless, but some part of his body knew it needed as much real food as it could get. The meat hadn’t lasted long, and Kozlóv wanted to save the rest of the dried reserves for further into the season. And so they had no choice but to hunt. Scaarbach had trapped before, but he’d never actually used a gun to take an animal down. In fact, he’d rarely used a gun at all as he’d quickly learned to dismiss them as unwieldy and unreliable. To hunt with one seemed an impossible task, especially with weak, human eyes, but Scaarbach was determined to rise to Kozlóv’s challenge, or at least not seem a total incompetent fool. He lay downwind, gun cocked, squinting into the distance for any sign of life. There was nothing.

“Shoot it,” Kozlóv hissed under his breath.

“Huh?” Scaarbach wondered, at a total loss as to what he was supposed to be shooting.

“Shoot it now!” Kozlóv insisted.

Scaarbach pulled the trigger, hoping to the Lady’s grace that he actually hit whatever invisible target he was expected to. It fired off into nothing, disappearing into the soft, snowy expanse that unfolded before him.

“Fuck!” Kozlóv exclaimed, “How could you miss it? It was right in-fucking-front of you! It practically nuzzled your toes! I thought you said you’ve used a gun before?”

“I… have used a gun before, sir… but… I never said I was any good at it,” Scaarbach hazarded, bracing himself for the barrage of insults that was undoubtedly going to follow.

Kozlóv exhaled sharply, “Fine… very well, _fine_. It will take time, but I’ll show you some basics.”

“Oh? Thank you sir?” Scaarbach replied, still waiting for the insults.

Kozlóv heaved his weight and leant over Scaarbach, aiming the gun from behind, “You need to learn how far each gun kicks back and compensate. This one you need to set your aim a little to the _left_ of your target,” he pulled the trigger, presumably hitting something in the distance, “Try and hit that rock over there, the one that looks like a goat’s skull.”

Scaarbach took a deep breath and tried to find any rock, let alone one that resembled a skull, his eyes fell on something dark and he tried to aim to the left as instructed, “Fine sir,” he winced as he pulled the trigger.

There was a long silence before Kozlóv grunted, “Try again, remember you want to aim to the left of the skull stone.”

“Yes sir,” Scaarbach replied, trying to guess where the invisible stone lay hidden from the extra bit of information. He aimed his gun further to the left and pulled the trigger, hoping to everything the Lady could give that he actually got his target.

Kozlóv made a deep, frustrated growl, “Are you even trying? It’s not that fucking hard to hit something two metres in front of you!”

“I’m sorry sir, I’ll try again, sir,” Scaarbach grimaced, and made another attempt.

“How are you getting worse?” Kozlóv exclaimed, “You’re doing this intentionally aren’t you? You’d have to be dumb or fucking bl——” he stopped himself mid-word and fell silent.

Scaarbach sighed, he’d been expecting this, “I’m sorry sir.”

“Give me back my gun,” Kozlóv said wearily.

“Yes sir,” Scaarbach muttered miserably, “I’m sorry sir.”

Kozlóv took the gun and pulled himself to his feet, “Stand up.”

Scaarbach did so, brushing off the snow from his coat, “I’m sorry sir.”

“What did you think you were aiming for?” Kozlóv asked, clearly forcing himself to be as patient as possible.

Scaarbach frowned, “Goat skull stone.”

“No, before that,” Kozlóv grunted.

“Oh! Um…, a er… a… uh…,” Scaarbach’s mind was racing trying to think of what it possibly could have been, “I - I don’t know, sir,” he admitted, accepting defeat.

“So you… _didn’t_ see the white rabbit on the snow?” Kozlóv wondered.

“How could you _possibly_ expect anyone to see that sir? Actually how did you even know that was there? Do you have some magical rabbit sense I don’t know about?” Scaarbach demanded, feeling like he was being unfairly humiliated.

“Possibly,” Kozlóv mused, taking a step back, “Ottokar, what colour are my eyes?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Scaarbach squinted into the distance, barely able to see he even had a face, “Blue?”

“Fine,” Kozlóv fumbled in the distance, “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Scaarbach squinted, he couldn’t actually see his hands but it stood to reason it’d be less than five, definitely less than ten, “Two sir?”

Kozlóv sighed, and took a step forward, “What about now?”

Scaarbach squinted again, “One?”

“Fine, just… tell me when you can see how many fingers,” Kozlóv said, slowly moving forward.

Scaarbach pulled his head up proudly, refusing to crumble at such a minor mockery, “Fine sir,” he took a deep breath, “Four sir, you’re holding up four,” he concluded as Kozlóv came into soft focus.

Kozlóv thumped a hand convivially on his shoulder, “Why didn’t you say you couldn’t see?”  
“I’m sorry, sir,” Scaarbach brushed off the hand, scowling.

“How long have you been unable to see clearly?” Kozlóv asked, putting his glove back on.

“I…,” Scaarbach wasn’t sure how to respond, “I don’t know? In the Darklands I learned that humans have terrible eyesight and I never thought anything of it when I got here?”

“How did you think I was able to hit that tree trunk?” Kozlóv wondered, sounding utterly bewildered, “In fact, how did you think anyone shot anything at all?”

“I…,” Scaarbach looked at his feet, “I just thought there was a trick I hadn’t learned yet, sir.”

Kozlóv looked down at Scaarbach, his arms folded, “Teaching you to shoot would be a waste.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Scaarbach mumbled, “I can pay for the wasted bullets.”

Kozlóv burst into uproarious laughter, “You’re a funny little man, Ottokar.”

Scaarbach chuckled nervously, thrown off by his superior not following the script, “Thank you, sir?”

“You don’t need to be so formal, Ottokar,” Kozlóv continued laughing, “It’s just us and the white rabbit out here.”

Scaarbach blinked, “But you’re…?”

“I’m nothing fancy,” Kozlóv insisted, “Eggs come up all cocky and need to learn their place, but someone like you isn’t _that_ far from someone like me.”

“But you’re the best assassin under the Dragon’s command?” Scaarbach frowned, true humility was unheard of in the Order and he was utterly confused to come face to coat buttons with it.

“I _may_ be Sidonia’s best hunter—” Kozlóv admitted, puffing up his chest with pride, “— but we’re both nothing but faceless impures to the people who count.”

Scaarbach grimaced, “Yes sir.”

⁂

Another horse had died in the night. It was an unsurprising but a depressing reality. Kozlóv himself wasn’t worried, and Scaarbach tried to follow his confidence. Down to a single horse, their pace slowed. Scaarbach waited on the sleigh while Kozlóv let it roam for awhile, searching for any remaining greenery underfoot. He pulled out his notebook and fished around for a piece of uncrushed charcoal in his pack. He opened it up and rested it on his knee and tried to sketch out Kozlóv from memory, his white beard and silvering hair, the shape of his hat, his rounded silhouette from the enormous thick brown fur coat.

“Ottokar!” Kozlóv yelled from the short distance between them, “Come here!”

Scaarbach slammed his notebook shut, feeling self-conscious, and stuffed it back into his pack with the charcoal. He slid from the sleigh and trudged his way through the slush. He found the changeling bent over a box that looked as though it once could have stored firewood or coals, “Yes sir?” he asked obediently.

“Look,” Kozlóv grunted, handing over a length of wood.

“Ach, it’s another one,” Scaarbach groaned, “Am I alone, how closely do you follow?” he read, “Brothers is that your breath I hear?” he thought about the words, “Oh. Oh she knows we’re onto her, sir.”

“She probably smelled us,” Kozlóv mused, “I bet she was close.”

“Or paranoid,” Scaarbach added, “What does she mean by ‘brothers,’ sir?”

“Changelings, Ottokar, we’re impure brethren,” Kozlóv explained.

Scaarbach sighed, “Of course, how silly of me, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genuinely feel bad about the deaths of those horses, but really their days had been numbered since they left St. Petersburg. I’m sure Sasha spoiled them rotten the day before they left, and he wouldn’t have wanted to take them at _all_ but in human dense areas, especially considering they’ve been racing against time, horses were their only option.


	5. Small Comforts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not one to give in easily, Scaarbach schemes a possible route to seize the glory of victory for himself but Kozlóv seems determined to make this as difficult possible in a way that takes Scaarbach by surprise.
> 
> CW: Discussions of Murder, Sexual Interactions; Including Implied Physical Responses of an Anatomical Nature

Despite Kozlóv’s constant reminders and the steady decrease in temperature, the onset of winter had come as a rude shock to Scaarbach. A coldsnap one night had taken their final horse and while they were grateful for the fresh meat, tough and flavourless as it was, it meant they needed to make some changes to their mode of transportation. He spent his days seated alone in the sleigh, bundled up as best he could, watching Kozlóv bound through the frozen wasteland as though it were his life’s purpose. It was impossible for Scaarbach to properly see that far into the distance, but he appreciated the sheer physical prowess of the changeling with each jolt. The sleigh wasn’t made for the aggressive leaps of a large troll and he could only hope the structure held out until the mission was completed. 

Velima was close, he could taste the impending violence in the air. Kozlóv could definitely smell her and her canine companions. Every now and then they would come across a body or three, unfortunate humans who had stumbled upon the rogue changeling and her found pack. The odd animal, on one occasion they’d even found a half-eaten bear that she had dragged out into the open for them to feast upon. She was strong, but clearly desperate, her rune sticks the only indication she was still recognisably a person. Scaarbach spent his days and nights troubleshooting how he’d kill her. 

He’d come to actually quite enjoy Kozlóv’s company, minus the snoring and general lack of privacy, but he couldn’t ever imagine someone like him aspiring to a position of real power. His apparent lack of aspirations was utterly absurd to Scaarbach, and while the changeling was clearly at a stark physical advantage, Kozlóv was ripe for someone as devious as Scaarbach to manipulate him onto his knees.

The snow was thick that night, and the gale chilled Scaarbach to his bones. In order to stay alive he had buried himself in the heart of the sleigh under all of their blankets and supplies, huddled in his troll form in secret. In front of him Kozlóv had been reduced to a slow, deliberate crawl, grasping into the frozen wilderness. After a moment of prolonged stillness, Scaarbach realised they had come to a complete halt and for a moment wondered if it were possible for a troll to freeze to death. A penetrating blast of air indicated Kozlóv was digging his way through.

“There’s a hut!” Kozlóv yelled above the howling winds, “I’ll light a fire!”

Scaarbach shifted and made his way to the surface, “Empty?” he yelled.

It was another one of Velima’s ‘gifts’ but Scaarbach was in no mood to look for either rune sticks or the dead, and headed straight for the fireplace. Kozlóv dragged in the supplies they needed and got the fire roaring as fiercely as possible. The bed in the hut was small, it possibly could have slept one small adult and baby quite comfortably, but for Kozlóv alone it wasn’t ideal. He took several of the blankets and threw them on the already made bed, dusted the snow from his coats and lay them atop the mound of bedding. He disappeared, presumably snug inside. 

Scaarbach tried to do the best he could, dragging his bedroll as close to the fire as he dared, leaving his boots and coats on. Still, he curled up by the fire shivering, his extremities numb. It was impossible to sleep, but he didn’t dare get up. He thought dearly of summer, the sun beating down on his skin, women in their creamy white dresses so fine that if he stood close enough, from the right angle he could see their undergarments in the light of day. It felt so far from where he was, stuck with the giant, hulking, and infinitely confusing Kozlóv in a tiny hut on the onset of what was shaping up to be a brutal winter. He was never one to complain, at least out loud with superiors listening, but he was fighting himself to accept that he was having a hard time. If he were a lesser man, he’d have broken into tears. Fortunately he was motivated almost entirely by spite, pride and devotion to one-upmanship. Kozlóv continued to be seemingly fine with the situation, and so, no weakness could be shown, even as Scaarbach lay coughing and shivering on the ground, fighting a losing battle with the winter’s night. 

Kozlóv cleared his throat, “Ottokar?” his voice betraying a certain degree of annoyance.

“Yes sir?” Scaarbach replied wearily.

“It’s cold, hand over your bedding,” Kozlóv demanded gruffly.

Scaarbach had a moment where he absolutely didn’t want to obey but was going to do it anyway, and utterly hated himself for it, “Yes sir,” he sighed, handing over his bedding.

Kozlóv lay them out atop of his mountain and grunted, “And your outermost clothes as well.”

Scaarbach smiled sheepishly, screaming internally, and undressed to his woollen shirt and thermals, “Is that enough, sir?” he snapped, barely able to conceal his indignation.

“Your boots,” Kozlóv added thoughtfully.

Scaarbach kicked off his boots, huddled over despite his seething pride, “Is that all, sir?” he demanded, teeth chattering. He wasn’t sure what game Kozlóv was playing, or what he had done to annoy the man, but he refused to give in.

Kozlóv sat up and watched him for a moment, probably greatly amused, “You… do understand I’m inviting you into my bed?”

“I’m sorry sir?” Scaarbach wasn’t sure he heard him correctly.

“It’s cold,” Kozlóv repeated, “Swallow your pride and get in the damned bed.”

Scaarbach gulped and weighed up his options, “Yes sir,” he sighed, accepting defeat and climbed under the blankets, his back facing Kozlóv to minimise the awkwardness.

It was theoretically warmer, Scaarbach couldn’t fully be sure as he hadn’t even begun to thaw out. Kozlóv had turned onto his side to accommodate his presence but it was intensely uncomfortable. His knees hung over the edge, and no matter what he tried, he couldn’t find a good position for his arms and shoulders. Despite coming close a few times before, such as the time Kozlóv had tried to defend himself against his imaginary demons in his sleep, or the time he had tried to show Scaarbach how to shoot, they’d never physically touched much at all. But in the cramped bed, not only did they have no choice but to be pressed tightly together like the bosom of a buxom and lascivious woman, but they were stuck in the one position with minimal options for movement. Scaarbach buried his hands between his thighs and desperately tried to rub some life into his digits before they fell off of their own accord.

Kozlóv coughed awkwardly, “Are you… doing what I think you’re doing?”

“My hands are numb, what do you——” Scaarbach snapped, stopping in his tracks as realisation dawned, “Oh sir, that’s _disgusting_ , what do you take me for?”

“Pity,” Kozlóv chuckled.

Scaarbach pouted under the blankets, the word slowly sinking in, “Wait… what exactly do you mean by that, sir?”

“Don’t call me sir,” Kozlóv insisted, “I’m just saying it’s been three long months.”

“Well I wasn’t. I do have _some_ restraint,” Scaarbach sulked, still bitter about the earlier misunderstanding.

“Turn over,” Kozlóv grunted.

“Yes sir,” Scaarbach replied automatically, and managed to somehow rotate in his narrow spot, facing Kozlóv.

“Let me,” Kozlóv reached out and grabbed Scaarbach’s hands, pulling them up and rubbing them between his own surprisingly hot hands.

“Um?” Scaarbach contemplated saying something but his brain had lost the ability to form actual sentences. At least the feeling was beginning to return to his fingers as he unthawed.

“Better?” Kozlóv asked.

“Mm,” Scaarbach muttered, his mind still moosh.

Kozlóv wrapped his arms around him, pulling him so close Scaarbach’s hands were pinned tightly against his chest. There was no point in struggling, Scaarbach could barely shift his weight under the mountain of bedding and his superior’s grip. He lay on his side, and after a valiant inner battle, beat his pride into submission, letting his face press into Kozlóv’s chest. He tried to at least relax but he could not. His mind, while still utter moosh, was racing with a thousand thoughts. He had been fully prepared to sleep on the floor by the fire in nothing but his underthings on a Russian winter’s night in the middle of nowhere. It was madness. It could have killed him. All because it never occurred to him that sharing a bed was an option, let alone asking for the privilege. Kozlóv didn’t have that problem, he’d probably been secretly laughing at his stubbornness the entire time. Scaarbach resolved to himself that he’d teach himself how to be a leader rather than default to a begrudging or simpering follower, especially for those who didn’t deserve it. It was either that or wake up dead one morning. 

Unthinkingly Scaarbach went to move and tsked, finding himself still pinned in place. Using all his strength he wriggled out of the death grip and rolled over. He sunk fully under the heavy bedding and tried as best he could to get comfortable. He wriggled down further and realised, to his embarrassment, he probably shouldn’t have been wriggling at all.

Kozlóv cleared his throat, “You can… ignore that,” he muttered awkwardly.

Scaarbach lay still, caught in a state of hyperawareness, several possible scenarios racing through his mind. He wriggled his way back up to the surface, never one to turn down an opportunity, “I uh… I mean… I’m not… I mean… can I _not_ , sir?”

“Sasha,” Kozlóv insisted, “We’ve gone _well_ beyond ‘sir’ now.”

Scaarbach thought for a moment, “Would you mind if I _didn’t_ ignore it, Sasha?” he still felt weird saying his name but under the circumstances even he had to agree it was more appropriate, “You could pretend I’m your wife, or anyone… not me?”

“Nadya didn’t have a beard, and if she did, she would have kept it better,” Kozlóv grunted, “But don’t pussyfoot around me, I like that you’re you.”

Scaarbach mock gagged, “That sounded almost sentimental.”

“Almost,” Kozlóv chuckled, “After this long I’m not fussy.”

⁂

The sound of howling echoed in his skull, intensifying into blood-curdling shrieks of agony. Scaarbach opened his eyes alarmed and found nothing but crushing darkness. He lay on his back, pinned in place by the hulking Kozlóv who snored happily atop of him like a slumbering mountain god. Mind racing, he waited to hear the sounds again. After a long suspenseful moment of relative silence, he realised it had been nothing but a nightmare. He tried to ignore it and return to his slumber, but there was something about it that demanded his full attention, even though he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what it was.

⁂

Scaarbach awoke again, blessedly alone in the inadequately sized bed. He spent some time hoarding the warmth, dreading what awaited outside. His muscles and bones were aching from the cold and trying to squish in with Kozlóv for the night. He tried to work a knot from his shoulder to no avail. Begrudgingly, he hauled himself up, unable to ignore the pressing biological urgency that woke him any longer. He slipped into the boots he’d left haphazardly on the ground and pulled on his thickest, furriest coat. 

After dealing with the situation at hand, he made his way to the nearby fireplace and warmed his hands, wondering where Kozlóv had gotten to. Something grey and depressing bubbled away in the pot hanging over the fire. He dug around the house looking for anything edible to give it a bare semblance of flavour. By some stroke of luck he found several containers of lard, preserved fruit, vegetables, dried meats, and vodka. He wasn’t entirely sure why Velima had left them behind, if she was desperate enough to turn to wildlife it would stand to reason she wouldn’t turn her nose up at peasant food, especially if she had killed them. Kozlóv barged his way in, fighting a thick mist of icy winds, and shook off his outermost coats at the door. He dragged a chest out from by the bed and sat next to Scaarbach on the wooden chair by the fire, close enough that his shoulder got in his way.

“What is this?” Kozlóv asked, gesturing dismissively at the selection Scaarbach had dug out from their varying hiding places.

“Peasant food,” Scaarbach explained, rubbing his shoulder absently, “Did you find any bodies?”

Kozlóv grunted and folded his arms, “No.”

“Are we trespassing, sir?” Scaarbach asked, the title slipped in out of habit.

“I doubt it, dearest,” Kozlóv mumbled.

Scaarbach gagged dramatically, “Don’t call me that, it’s weird!”

Kozlóv crossed his arms and scowled at Scaarbach wearily, “Exactly.”

“Fair point, Sasha,” Scaarbach muttered awkwardly, trying to work a kink out of his neck.

“You should eat breakfast,” Kozlóv sniffed, gesturing at the slop that had begun to congeal on the surface. He ladled out a bowl full and added a bonus dollop of fruit preserves before handing it over.

Scaarbach stirred the miserable yet hot meal around with his spoon and bit his tongue lest he got called dearest again, “Thank you… Sasha.”

Kozlóv nodded and watched him eat in silence. They both stared at the fire, too awkward to want to discuss what had happened the night before. Eventually Kozlóv cleared his throat, “We… need to have a difficult conversation.”

Scaarbach stopped sucking on his spoon and grimaced, “About last night—”

“No,” Kozlóv shook his head, “About Velica.”

“Oh! Who’s Velica, sir? Shit! Sasha?” Scaarbach stumbled.

“Velima, dearest,” Kozlóv explained, “Her real name is Velica Marica Milescu.”

Scaarbach nodded, “Ah, of course. What did you need to say?”

“I need to know if I fail, that you’re prepared to take her down,” Kozlóv grimaced.

“Are you expecting to… fail, Sasha?” Scaarbach wondered, close enough he could see Kozlóv’s jaded expression.

Kozlóv straightened up gruffly, “No, of course not!” he insisted, “But—” his shoulders fell instantly again, “— I need to know that you can do it, that you have a plan.”

Scaarbach looked the changeling up and down, unsure what brought this on but hoping it meant they were nearly upon her, “Sir, I’m calling you sir because I’m saying this as you’re the nearest representative of the Dragon and this is a serious matter regarding the mission, please don’t call me ‘dearest’ again for this,” he clarified, “Sir, I _will_ kill her. I have a plan.”

“What plan?” Kozlóv asked doubtfully, “She is a highly skilled and ruthless changeling, how could you, _Ottokar_ , stand a chance against her?”

Scaarbach sniffed, taking offence, “What I lack in _physical_ prowess, I make up for in brains, stealth and subterfuge.”

“She knows we’re coming,” Kozlóv growled, “There will be no stealth.”

“I don’t need stealth,” Scaarbach smirked proudly, “She’ll greet me as a brother.”

Kozlóv sighed, “I hope for your sake she doesn’t see through it within seconds.”

Scaarbach thought deeply for a moment, “What is she like? What can you tell me?”

“She is stubborn, resourceful, and she knows this region better than anyone,” Kozlóv admitted, “She also loves animals, especially dogs. I once heard a rumour that she killed a man for hurting animals, although the animal and cruelty changed between teller.”

“Was it true?” Scaarbach wondered, filing the little tidbits of information for future reference.

Kozlóv shrugged, “Who could say?”

“Sasha, can I ask a question?” Scaarbach hazarded.

“Go on,” Kozlóv prompted.

“How well do you know her?” Scaarbach asked, hoping his implied meaning was enough he didn’t have to ask it directly.

Kozlóv stared off into the distance for a long moment, “Not that well.”

“So you weren’t… you know, intimate?” Scaarbach continued, terrified he was stepping over some kind of line.

“No,” Kozlóv grunted, “She was just my captain, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Scaarbach replied, “I see. Ignore me, I just wanted to make sure.”

A silence fell between the changelings as they quietly pondered their future. Their eyes met but for a moment and Scaarbach felt a blush overcome him. He pretended to be distracted by the fire, too awkward to say anything as he absently rubbed his shoulder.

“Did - did you… enjoy last night?” Kozlóv asked quietly, his eyes firmly set on the fire in front of them as Scaarbach dared to face him once more.

“Not really,” Scaarbach admitted, watching the expression of the man whose brows knitted together pitifully, “Last night was miserable.”

“Ah,” Kozlóv sighed, “I’m sorry about that. Did you hurt yourself? You keep rubbing your neck and shoulders.”

Scaarbach frowned, “It’s nothing,” he averted his eyes bashfully, “But I’m not opposed to something like that happening again. We _are_ stuck out here in the middle of nowhere,” he tried to shrug but winced despite himself.

Kozlóv nodded, and stood up, “Good, I agree,” he took a step behind and Scaarbach and rested his hands on his shoulders, “Let me.”

“What are you— oh!” Scaarbach gasped, hearing his spine crack in several places, “You really don’t have to do this, Sasha.”

“I know,” Kozlóv grunted, working his way through the several knots that were annoying him, “But you’re clearly useless.”

Scaarbach wanted to complain but his ability to conceive of words had washed away in a shower of stars. Despite what had happened the night earlier, he felt uneasy about Kozlóv giving him any positive attention. It was purely physical, that didn’t even stand to need clarifying, but it made his future plans seem even more manipulative. But no matter what, he wasn’t going to change them. His lust for power and recognition were far greater than whatever mild guilt he might feel underhanding Kozlóv’s triumph in the final hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god and there was only one bed.


	6. Changeling Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scaarbach accidentally stumbles upon the last clue as to the traitorous Velima’s whereabouts and it’s up to Kozlóv to take her down, but Scaarbach has other ideas.
> 
> CW: Discussions of Murder

Scaarbach snuggled, nestled deep within the heart of the sleigh, Kozlóv bounding ahead through the freezing cold night like a troll possessed. There wasn’t much for Scaarbach to do under the circumstances. His troll form was too small and too unbalanced to be of any use powering the sleigh, and in the confines within, it was all he could do huddle to keep warm. The darkness and the regular jolts meant that sketching in his notebook was out of the question, and he was too cold and miserable to pass the time talking to himself or singing what bawdy songs he could remember from home.

The sleigh came to a halt, and Kozlóv’s thundering footsteps approached, crunching in the fresh snow. He pulled open the door to the sleigh, and switched his forms, crawling inside. Scaarbach lifted the furs and blankets he sheltered under and Kozlóv joined him, sullen faced after a night of running as fast as he could. The area they had stumbled into was blessedly scarce of human life, and so they had little chance of being discovered as they slept through the day. Scaarbach’s mind ran wild with fantasies regarding their quarry’s death. With every passing day he grew more certain of his pending triumph. In turn, it seemed, Kozlóv grew more and more reticent. Scaarbach was quickly running out of ways to keep him motivated, but he still had a few tricks up his sleeve.

Scaarbach woke at what seemed to be mid afternoon. He struggled out of the sleigh with the intent of relieving himself and stretching his legs. Their food had become scarce, and they had begun to ration their meals to once every two days. It wasn’t enough. He trudged through the snow, looking for a good spot to expose himself to the elements. To him it were as though he wandered through a thick impenetrable and icy fog. In every direction all he could see was a haze of white and greys, perhaps a splash of blue and other colours if the sun seemed to reflect off the snow in the right way. The area was forested, fir trees stretched out through the wilderness further than the eye could see, which in his case turned out to be half a metre before impact. Scaarbach tripped on something underfoot, he presumed it to be the rotting remains of a tree, but something had felt wrong. He squatted down, using his shovel to balance himself and quickly realised his mistake. It could have been so easy for him to have missed it, in fact they probably had missed countless rune sticks if she had taken to just stabbing them in the ground at random.

“Sasha!” Scaarbach yelled desperately, “Sasha we’ve got another one!”

Kozlóv came trudging out to meet him, clearly not consumed by the urgency that had taken Scaarbach, “Read it,” he grunted.

Scaarbach pulled the carved stick from the ground and turned it over in his bemittened hands, “I hear you cry out, my lost brothers, how the humans must hate you,” he read, “What do you suppose she means by that?” he wondered.

Kozlóv chuckled and patted him on the back, “It means she heard us, or more accurately, she heard you.”

“When did she hear me, it’s not like I make much of—” Scaarbach’s cheeks burned with realisation, “Oh… _oh_ … ohh,” he shuffled awkwardly, clearing his throat and turning the stick over, “Join me,” he smiled sheepishly, “Nice of her to give us an invitation.”

Kozlóv positively glowered, “Yes.”

⁂

For another three weeks they journeyed, trekking their way through the wilderness under the cover of darkness. The trees grew denser, and Kozlóv had been faced with choosing between the stealth of somehow weaving through the forest, or crashing his way through like the giant he was. The closer they got, the less inclined towards stealth he was, ploughing and crushing the forest beneath him.

Scaarbach had nearly fallen asleep when the sleigh stopped. He waited for the sounds of trees crashing to the ground but met with only silence. A dog howled in the distance. He ignored it for a second but then his eyes open wide with realisation. A dog. _Her_ dog. Boldness took him and he opened the sleigh door. Kozlóv held his gloved hand over Scaarbach’s face.

“Sbither?” Scaarbach asked, his voice slurred by the thick glove.

Kozlóv grunted and gestured towards a downward slope, “There’s a cabin. Dogs. Smoke. It’s her,” he hissed.

Scaarbach turned to look but he could see nothing through the darkness and the distance, but there was smoke, there was definitely smoke, “How far?” he asked once Kozlóv had removed his hand.

“An hour in that snow, maybe two,” Kozlóv replied, “Get your things, we’re getting closer.”

Scaarbach nodded, and collected his things from the sleigh. Kozlóv carried the brunt of the weight, and they trudged through the snow in the darkness, guided by naught but the smell of smoke. It was exhausting, but eventually they made their way to a spot they could overlook the cabin without being seen. Using their furs, blankets and everything else at their disposal, Kozlóv made a serviceable tent to shelter them from the elements. Scaarbach crawled closer to the cabin, drawn by the pull of pending triumph.

Kozlóv frowned, “Stay out of wind, we will attack at daybreak.”

“But Sasha!” Scaarbach hissed urgently, “She’s right there! We should attack now before she knows we’re here!”

“That’s an order Scaarbach,” Kozlóv grunted.

Scaarbach pouted in the direction of the blobs that represented Velima and her cabin, “Yes sir. I understand, sir.”

⁂

Scaarbach couldn’t sleep. His quarry was close, so close. It was likely she hadn’t noticed how close they were. Kozlóv had been meticulous in ensuring there were no signs of their proximity, but she had dogs. The dogs would know. He turned to Kozlóv who sat curled up next to him in their makeshift tent. It was freezing. Scaarbach had grown accustomed to the biting ice, the chill that made his bones ache, his lungs rattle. But Kozlóv had disallowed a fire that night. They had nothing but their troll forms to keep them alive, but Scaarbach was still presenting as human. It was perhaps foolish, but however weak his human body was, it gave him a tactical advantage, and with Velima so close he could use as much as he could get. His mind was racing. He was fond of Kozlóv, far fonder than he’d ever admit, but he was going to fail the mission. If they waited until morning Velima would have had enough time to discover them and escape. Scaarbach didn’t want to resort to insubordination but if Kozlóv was responsible for them losing Velima for good, the Order would never take notice of Scaarbach. He’d be stuck as a nobody for another century. It was a risky move but it was his only chance. He refused to be a nobody for another century. He was going to earn the respect he deserved. The Lady herself had surely given him the opportunity. Wölfin couldn’t scorn him any longer, even the Dragon would sit up and take notice. He was going to be somebody.

He pulled away from Kozlóv and began digging through their supplies, his mind made up. Scaarbach piled their entire supply of dried meat into his pockets, and pulled out several of the rune sticks, stashing them in his outermost overcoat. He wasn’t sure if his plan would work but he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to try. Scaarbach crawled out of the makeshift tent and shuddered involuntarily. He’d have to get to the cabin before he froze to death. He stumbled through the darkness, heading off in the general direction of the cabin. It was difficult to be stealthy with absolutely zero vision in the middle of a Russian winter’s night, but stealth wasn’t part of his plan. He followed the smell of smoke, tripping over everything underfoot, pulling himself through the dense blanket of snow. He was close. He could hear a muffled whine in the distance. He was so close. His senses filled with the smell of smoke and dogs. He was so very close.

Scaarbach gulped when the door swung open and several dogs spilled out, barking and whining. He fumbled in his pockets, making soothing noises, and threw the dried meat into the distance. To his relief they shot out, scrambling over themselves in a wild, desperate frenzy for food. He turned his attention to the cabin. The door was still open, the soft light of the fire blocked by a vaguely humanoid shape standing in the frame. It was _her_.

She called out something in what he assumed was Russian, keeping up the human pretence.

Scaarbach took a deep breath, coughing as the icy night’s air froze his lungs, and stepped forward, “Velima?” he asked, using his best passive voice, “Is that you?”

Velima growled, her eyes flashing angrily, “Go away! I won’t ask again!”

Scaarbach took another step closer, pulling out a rune stick from his overcoat, “I received your messages, sister,” he said, “You killed those humans so we could stay alive, didn’t you?”

“What do you think?” Velima asked defensively, centring her gravity in expectation of a fight.

Scaarbach approached her, holding out a rune stick, “I know how you feel,” he replied, using the bitterness of the air to break his voice, “I hate this, I hate this life! I’ve been trudging behind Kozlóv for months. He doesn’t understand you but I do, I know why you ran!”

There was a flash of light and Velima changed, towering over Scaarbach angrily, “You don’t understand, pathetic whelp! You _couldn’t_ understand!”

Scaarbach fell to his knees, rune sticks tumbling to the ground, “No, you’re right! Of course you are right!” he looked up, tears welling in his eyes, “But I want out, I want to join you,” he rasped, “I want it so badly,” he sobbed, “I don’t… I don’t know when I lost my stone, maybe I never had it. In the Darklands I nearly died so many times, the other changelings they - they…,” he tried to pull himself together, “I fought so hard to come to the surface. It’s so beautiful up here, but—” he broke his despairing gaze to look at his hands, “— I have no place in the human world. They are every bit as cruel and disgusting as our captors. The things they did to me, the things they do together… I just want a place to be free, I want to know what it’s like to not be in pain or afraid for once in my life. Even if Kozlóv follows us, I just want a small taste of happiness before I die,” he looked up again at Velima, unable to see her reaction from the showman’s tears and distance, “Please, Velica, tell me about Siberia,” he begged, pawing at her hands.

Velima took a step back, and with a deep sigh, grasped his hand tightly, “Come inside, it’s freezing out here.”

Scaarbach stared up at her, absolutely stunned his plan was going to work, “You’re not going to kill me?” he asked, just to be sure.

“No,” Velima replied softly, “I’m so tired of death,” she turned back into her human form and led him inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initially you were going to see what happens immediately after this in the same chapter but ended up changing my mind last minute.


	7. The Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Velima and Scaarbach discuss Siberia and what it means to be a changeling in the comfort of the appropriated hut, but things turn ugly fast when Kozlóv realises what Scaarbach has done.
> 
> CW: Sexual References, Attempts at Emotional Manipulation, References to Coercion into Marriage, Mentions of Sterilisation, Assassination, Murder, Animal Death, Violence, Injury, Unsanitary Medical Procedures

The interior of the cabin was wretched, but with the fire roaring it was as though it had been sent by the Lady herself. Scaarbach sat by it with Velima, sipping a thin broth she had made with bones it was best not to question. It was difficult to contain his glee, but even it was second to the sheer biological gratitude of a warm place to sit and something hot in his belly. Velima wasn’t what he was expecting. She was ordinary to look at, seemingly middle-aged, round like him, somewhat tall for a woman, her face weathered by several lifetimes of misery. She wore peasant’s clothes under piles of fur. No human would look at her and see a monster. From their point of view she was barely worth noticing at all. Someone’s wife, someone’s mother. A hand that scrubbed floors, or perhaps fed bellies, but nobody of note. Nobody at all. 

“Kozlóv,” Velima said quietly, “I… heard you together.”

Scaarbach grimaced, “Yes, I know.”

“Why did you want to?” Velima stirred the remains of the thin broth in her bowl, “He still has his stone.”

Scaarbach remained silent for a while, not really knowing what to say, “Human urges,” Scaarbach admitted, “And I thought if he was thinking of rule number three, he wouldn’t notice how I’ve been conspiring against him.”

Velima nodded, “Kozlóv is a simple changeling. Perhaps more honourable than most,” she gave him a sideways glance, “Humans must _love_ you.”

“I’m a freak,” Scaarbach shrugged, “I’m never going to fit in with anyone.”

Velima patted him on the shoulder, “Siberia will be different.”

Scaarbach tried to pretend his skin didn’t crawl, “What if there isn’t a sanctuary? What if we get there and there’s nothing, no one?”

“Then we make it,” Velima concluded, genuine resolution in her voice.

They sat in silence, lost in thought. Scaarbach watched the changeling with complete mystification, she seemed so genuine, so honest. She had no business to trust him with anything and yet she had welcomed him with open arms. She hadn’t even ensured he wasn’t armed. It would be her downfall.

“What’s your real name?” Velima asked.

“Ottokar,” Scaarbach replied, feeling slightly dirty as he did so.

“Did they ever force you to marry, Ottokar?” Velima wondered quietly.

“Yeah,” Scaarbach admitted.

“Did you want to?” Velima held her arms to her stomach, hugging herself tightly against the cold.

“No,” Scaarbach admitted.

“But you did it anyway,” Velima nodded, “Were you good to her?”

Scaarbach thought for a moment, “Not really,” he concluded.

“You beat her?” Velima’s expression hardened in the light of the fire.

“I was cold,” Scaarbach explained, “I never raised my hand _against_ Hedwig, but I never raised my hand to protect her either.”

“She suffered?” Velima’s expression softened, if only slightly.

“She was a good Christian girl, she did nothing but turn the other cheek,” Scaarbach couldn’t hide the disgust in his voice, “I was supposed to learn how to be human from her, all I learned was good people never get what they want,” for some strange reason it was nice to confess things to the changeling, perhaps because she was going to die, “I tried to be a good husband but I failed. My clearest memories of her are of her sobbing at night when she thought I was asleep. She took her childlessness as a punishment from her God for failing to do her duty to me,” he sighed, “She never told me, but I knew. I could see it in her face.”

Velima sighed, “My husbands thought I failed. It’s so cruel of the Order to expect me to remarry time and time again when they knew changelings were changed so we could never reproduce and outnumber our masters.”

“I dislike pretending to be normal,” Scaarbach admitted, “I’m always having to hide one part of myself or another. Always having to bend the knee or look the other way.”

Velima scoffed, “Men have it easy in the human world. If you think you have to bend the knee, try being a wife!” the corners of her mouth curled in a harsh imitation of a smile, “Although I suppose someone like _you_ would actually enjoy that.”

“What do you mean someone like me?” Scaarbach demanded before his mind connected the dots, “Oh… _oh_ ,” he blushed, suddenly very preoccupied with the condition of his boots.

“Is that the human shame to go with your human urges?” Velima teased, “You really _don’t_ have your stone.”

Rage filled Scaarbach’s mind before he quashed it, remembering his plan, “Shut up,” he pouted.

I’m just teasing. You’re not a freak to me,” Velima chuckled. To Scaarbach’s surprise, she rested a head on his shoulder in a shockingly familiar gesture, “It’s been lonely out here. You must be the first person I’ve spoken to in five months.”

Scaarbach nearly added ‘and the last’ before he caught himself in time, “What about the humans you killed?”

“Sneak attacks don’t work if you start a conversation first,” Velima laughed.

For a second Scaarbach took it personally, but there was no way she could have seen through his act, he was far too good at being pathetic and inoffensive, “True,” he replied, hoping against all hope it was not in fact the case.

Velima stood up, putting her bowl aside, her back to Scaarbach. It was his chance. He threw himself at her, aiming his dagger into her back. It hit something under her coat before she turned him out onto the floor. There was another flash of light, and with her stone face contorted with rage, she thrust something metal in his general direction. It hit his thigh, sinking deep within his flesh, and Scaarbach howled with pain. Instinctively he tried to switch into his true form but found himself stuck, fleshy and weak. She stabbed him again, the cabin suddenly alive with bloodthirsty dogs as they sunk their teeth into whatever they could grab hold of. Velima hissed something in Russian and the dogs backed away, she towered over Scaarbach as he lay bleeding on the floor, not daring to move.

“What did I say, idiot whelp?” Velima growled, “You’re all the same, selfish fools the lot of you,” she kicked the metal object buried deep into his leg, he howled in pain, “At least you weren’t lying about your stone,” she glowered over him, holding a blade that glowed with magic and the reflection of the fire, “A pity I won’t be there to see his face when your _beloved_ Sasha learns the truth,” her tone changed into a mockery of pity, “I _could_ kill you but it’s customary for Kozlóv to do the honours,” she slashed across his eye with her claws, “You pathetic stoneless wre—”

The dogs whined anxiously and dashed out into the cold night. There was the sound of a tree breaking and a deep, monstrous growl.

“Show your face!” a gravelly troll voice demanded. It was Kozlóv and he was _furious_ , “Scaarbach! Velima! Show your face!”

“Siberia or death!” Velima yelled, running over Scaarbach and into the night.

It was difficult but Scaarbach managed to drag himself out to the cabin’s door, vainly looking out to hear the fight that unfolded before his very ears. Blood ran down his face and he kept his eye clamped shut, terrified it he had lost another. His heart pounded in his chest, and seemed as though he couldn’t draw breath. The sound of growling and the occasional gut-chilling crunch of bone, or stone against stone echoed in the night. As they fought, Velima and Kozlóv argued bitterly in Russian, almost sounding as though they both pleaded for the other to stand down. 

Scaarbach couldn’t breathe. For a moment he thought he was stuck in the Darklands again. It was just like the Darklands. Ugly and miserable. Nothing to see and Scaarbach laying injured on the ground as other changeling fought each other bitterly to the death. Velima had said he didn’t have any stone. And she was right, of course she was right. True trolldom had been taken from him, humanity would never have a place for a monster like him, and he was without doubt, a failure as a changeling. There was nothing left for him to be. 

Velima screamed. Her voice so loud and shrill that if there was even a single human around within miles, that the place would surely be rumoured to be haunted for decades to come. She screamed again, and the sound of stone crumbling chilled the air. There was a muffled thud, followed by desperate pleading. In his fantasies Scaarbach hadn’t imagined she’d sob, pleading for her life like a broken, desperate child. It was sickening. Far too much like the Darklands. There were more screams, followed by several thuds. Velima’s voice grew weaker, but after a sickening, final sound of stone being crushed, silence. The surviving dogs whimpered in the darkness for their lost master. Scaarbach tried to calculate exactly how she had been killed and based on the sounds, came to the conclusion that Kozlóv had torn her limb from limb, finally ending her life once she was completely and utterly defenceless. The thought drew bile to his throat.

Snow crunched underfoot and Scaarbach’s heart stopped when he realised Kozlóv was coming in his direction. He could tell. Surely he could tell. The second he saw Scaarbach’s expression he was sure to see the absence of stone behind his eyes. The changeling stood by the door of the cabin, far too large to enter in his true form. There was a flash of light and Kozlóv returned to his human self. Scaarbach flinched as the senior changeling entered the cabin, whimpering despite himself. Kozlóv looked down at him, towering overhead, and turned to look outside into the night. He growled something in Russian and whistled. The dogs whimpered. Kozlóv barked more Russian and the dogs scurried in the cabin, tails between their legs. He shut the cabin door, and stood to look at the dogs as they cowered as far away from him as possible. Kozlóv turned his attention back to Scaarbach as he lay soaking in the shame of defeat.

“Stand up!” Kozlóv snapped.

Scaarbach tried to pull himself to his feet but found an iron poker where his thigh should have been. He blinked, feeling light-headed, and went to pull it out.

“Stop!” Kozlóv yelled urgently.

The changeling bent over Scaarbach and unceremoniously hauled him closer to the fire. Scaarbach wanted to explain himself, to beg for forgiveness, but sound refused to come out of his mouth. The frantic, ugly sounds of Velima begging for her life echoed in his head.

Kozlóv pawed at the poker, too rough to be considered tender, but too gentle to be considered torture. All the same, it was too much.

“No don’t!” Scaarbach yelped, instinctively trying to cover the wound with his hands, “Please don’t! I’ll be fine! Just don’t… please don’t look at me… like that—”

Kozlóv met his eyes. He was angry. Furious. Every fibre of his being flooding over with disgust. He pulled out a blade despite Scaarbach’s protestations and sunk it into his doubled breeches. The knife followed up his leg and severed a single pant leg, exposing his thigh with the poker still inside. Scaarbach grimaced, unable to hide his humiliation and shame. Without a word, Kozlóv wrapped his hand around the poker and gave it an exploratory tug. Scaarbach’s hand flew to his mouth as he rushed to stifle his pain. A relatively small amount of blood rushed to the surface and trickled down his leg. Kozlóv sighed and stood up, rummaging around his coat interior for something in his pockets. He pulled several things out, laying them out on Scaarbach’s less injured thigh. Kozlóv took a narrow length of rope and wrapped it around Scaarbach’s leg, pulling it tight about two inches up from his inner thigh, and tying it into a particular naval-looking knot. He then went and rummaged through Velima’s things, angrily throwing things aside as he searched for whatever it was he needed. 

Eventually he came back, holding a sack. Scaarbach laid back, eyes closed, unable to follow what Kozlóv was doing but pretty sure he didn’t need to see it when he did it. The pain was considerable, but Scaarbach was determined not to show weakness. He bit his hand silently as Kozlóv slowly worked the poker out of him, and cleaned his wounds. By rights, he should have been freezing, and that was certainly true of certain parts of his anatomy, but his legs burned as though they were on fire. Kozlóv’s breath changed to irregular pants, and the feeling of something sharp stabbing into his skin made Scaarbach open his eyes involuntarily. He glanced at his leg and realised the changeling was using a needle and thread to patch the worst of the damage. At some point he had transcended his shame, floated up, and nestled in a cloud of exhaustion and numbness. Kozlóv moved onto the other leg, then the hands, and eventually his face, having long run out of vodka by that point. Eventually he was done and they sat, simmering in mutual resentment, just waiting for the dawn to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clearly mistakes were made, people got hurt, but now they have to wait several decades for psychiatry to be invented.


	8. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rogue changeling Velima is dead, but Scaarbach is left nursing his wounds and wallowing in his own self pity. To make matters worse, Kozlóv is the only thing standing between survival or certain death, and he is _angry_.
> 
> CW: Animal Death, The Consumption of Animal Meat Widely Considered to be Unorthodox in Western Society, Injury, Unsanitary Medical Procedures, Implied Bigotries and Prejudices; Largely of the Misogynistic and Arguably Transphobic Nature

He dreamt of darkness that night. The broken sobs of parentless orphans, and angry growls of children determine not to die. The warm mutterings of goblins, and the blinding light of magic. Passed from nest to nest, never welcome, never home. Their only hope, a distant dream.

Scaarbach woke, his heart already pounding in his chest. It was cold, freezing in fact, but he was hot. He shrugged off the furs that had been draped over him as he slept, and sat up, yelping as the sudden pain reminded him of the night’s misdeeds. Kozlóv sat by him, stirring something meaty in the pot by what was passing a hearth. His belly growled and he sighed, assuming Kozlóv was disinclined to share. If anything, Scaarbach was surprised he was still in the hut. Had their roles been reversed, Scaarbach probably would have left him there to die. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” Scaarbach admitted, fully prepared to embrace humility if it meant a hot meal.

Kozlóv grunted but otherwise said nothing.

“I was naïve, sir,” Scaarbach sighed, “You warned me and I didn’t listen.”

Kozlóv grunted in agreement, and wordlessly handed him a bowl of stew.

“Thank you, sir,” Scaarbach gulped some of it down, “It doesn’t taste like hare… or rabbit,” he swallowed some more, chewing on a bit of a cartilage, “It’s not venison either,” he racked his mind, trying to figure out where Kozlóv could have found fresh meat during the small hours of the morning, “Oh no…,” he turned his attention to where the dogs had cowered in the night, the spot conspicuous in their absence, “Oh no, sir… sir you didn’t? Please tell me you didn’t. They attacked me yes, but they didn’t deserve to _die_ , sir!”

Kozlóv covered his eyes for a moment, as though the darkness would grant him strength. When he drew his hands away, he whistled and the dogs came running in, their muzzles pink from feasting.

Scaarbach frowned, “If the dogs are fine, then what are we eating?”

“Two tried to defend their mistress. A mistake,” Kozlóv explained, glaring at him angrily as though daring him to question his judgement again.

“Ach,” Scaarbach gulped the stew still in his mouth and choked, “What were the dogs eating then?”

“I said two, Scaarbach,” Kozlóv sighed.

“Oh sir!” Scaarbach’s face went through several versions of disgust as realisation hit.

“The last of our rations are gone,” Kozlóv spat, “You will eat what I have cooked, or you will starve.”

A memory of throwing the dried meat for the dogs filled Scaarbach with regret, “Yes sir,” he sighed, drinking the rest of the stew along with his self-hatred. He really was an idiot.

⁂

For the next few days Scaarbach endeavoured to keep his mouth shut. As Kozlóv had torn off the parts of his clothes that kept his important bits warm, and his thigh was bandaged in rags that had seen better days, Scaarbach opted to remain in front of the fire, comfortably wrapped in furs. It didn’t lend itself well to entertainment but his muscles did need to heal. The prospect of what he was going to wear when they did have to leave were a problem for another day. Kozlóv occasionally ducked out to do things such as bond with the poor traumatised dogs, but most of the time he sat on a chair and read what seemed to be a book. Scaarbach didn’t dare ask what it was about, but apparently it was an engrossing read.

Overall, they didn’t talk. If they absolutely had to, they would share a sentence or two, but whatever camaraderie they had shared on the journey to Velima had died when Scaarbach had snuck out that night. Whenever Scaarbach looked at him, he couldn’t see Sasha any more, he was _Kozlóv_. A fearsome brute and assassin. A towering goliath who tore begging victims limb from limb, and butcher of puppies. He was sure that Kozlóv no longer saw him as Ottokar. He was _Scaarbach_. A slimy traitor and a fool. A pathetic wretch of a creature who simpered and cowered like the frightened dog he was. Stoneless and doomed.

He waited for the moment Kozlóv demanded he proved his loyalty, yet it didn’t seem to come. In fact, beyond any reason he could think of, Kozlóv barely brought up his betrayal at all. If Scaarbach was lucky, he was just saving himself until the anger died down and they could discuss things like adults. But it was far more likely, in Scaarbach’s opinion, that Kozlóv was waiting to tell everything to the Janus Order. If the Order sent Kozlóv for Scaarbach’s throat, he couldn’t run, he couldn’t fight him. Kozlóv was not one to be fought in combat, and Scaarbach clearly didn’t have the wits he had hoped so dearly that he had. He would just have to accept death. Either in honour or dishonour, death was their one true fate. The only grace he could spare himself, Scaarbach concluded, was that deep down, he was pretty sure he did have his stone. He just happened to be so utterly useless it looked that way on the outside.

One day, when Kozlóv had left the cabin to exercise the dogs and hunt, Scaarbach found the boredom too great and attempted to find the book Kozlóv had been glued to for the past several days. He couldn’t read Russian, or Romanian or in whatever eastern language it had likely been written, but he was hoping it at least had pictures. He could limp, aided by a literal stick Kozlóv had brought him back as a crutch, and hobbled across the room. Scaarbach rummaged through the cabin until he found what he was looking for. He tucked it under his arm and hobbled back to the fire. 

He nestled back down and opened it. It was handwritten, changeling runes. His blood ran cold as he realised it was Velima’s journal. The Order definitely wouldn’t approve of him reading it. But Kozlóv had been reading it. Surely if Kozlóv had been reading it couldn’t have been all that dangerous. So he read. He read her accounts of masquerading as a human. Acting as midwife throughout the centuries. Rising up the ranks in the Order. The accusations of witchcraft and fleeing certain death several times over. He skipped ahead to the last few months. His skin shivered when she changed her format, switching from stories she told herself to advice to the changelings she knew would eventually come to read it. She explained her reasons for leaving, the pain she felt every time someone under her command suffered. She asked questions, dangerous questions. Scaarbach panicked, already feeling his stone fall away under her words again, and threw the book in the fire.

Kozlóv lunged from behind him and pawed at the book, pulling it out and stamping down the flames in desperation, “You fool!” he growled bitterly, “You fool!”

“It was dangerous, sir!” Scaarbach insisted, “She was trying to destroy our stone!”

“It was evidence!” Kozlóv yelled, glowering over him as his rage and frustration rained down like the snow outside, “It was not your call, Scaarbach! It was not your call!”

Scaarbach nearly broke for a second but he pulled himself together just in time, “It was dangerous!” he insisted.

Kozlóv pulled him to his feet in his fury, “Don’t you _dare_ undermine me again! Do you understand me?” he raged.

Scaarbach looked up at him, cringing with every fibre of his being, “I’m sorry, sir.”

Kozlóv grunted and let him go, “I should check your stitches,” he muttered, his fire fading as quickly as it came.

“Yes sir,” Scaarbach sighed, knowing there was no point in arguing about it, as furious as he was, Kozlóv didn’t seem to mean any immediate harm to him. He sat back down and let Kozlóv carefully unwrap his bandages.

“They need to come out,” Kozlóv sighed, “Should’ve done it yesterday.”

Scaarbach fumbled in his pockets and handed over a knife, “It’s the sharpest one I have,” he explained.

Kozlóv took the blade and nicked at the stitches. The worst part of Scaarbach’s thigh was still black with bruises, but it seemed as though the open wound had healed, at least superficially. Kozlóv had been right about leaving it too late, his skin had healed over certain parts of the threads and ripped open after they’d had been removed. But all things considered, he was lucky. There wasn’t any sign of infection, and he hadn’t bled to death on the spot. It was possible he’d have to spend the rest of his life with a limp but as far as he was concerned, ‘the rest of his life’ only got him until he returned to the Berlin headquarters.

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Kozlóv explained, handing back the knife.

“I don’t mean this as insubordination sir,” Scaarbach frowned, “But I am not fit to travel.”

“I won’t make you walk,” Kozlóv thumped him once on the shoulder.

Scaarbach made a face, “You cut off my breeches _and_ my thermals, sir!”

Kozlóv nodded and headed off to Velima’s possessions, secreting the book under his coat. Eventually he found what he was looking for and threw them in Scaarbach’s general direction.

Scaarbach held up what was very clearly a peasant’s dress, “You can’t be serious sir?”

Kozlóv sighed, “There are trousers too, you big baby.”

“But sir?” Scaarbach grimaced at the trousers that had been beautifully embroidered in what he interpreted as an ethnically significant floral design, “This isn’t… for… men.”

“It is a fur lined woollen garment humans put on their fleshy nakedness to not freeze to death,” Kozlóv groaned, “Why would you care who it’s for?”

“I don’t care,” Scaarbach insisted, “But… if a human sees me dressed like this… they might, well… you know?”

“Your coat nearly reaches the ground, no one will see you’re wearing a dress,” Kozlóv crossed his arms and sighed deeply.

⁂

The following month was blessedly familiar. They spent their days backtracking the way they came and huddled up at night to sleep through the bitter cold. The dogs wouldn’t follow when the sleigh was drawn by Kozlóv so they resorted to using the sled Velima had apparently been using to travel. It was a beat up old thing, but it was serviceable and that was all that mattered. It seemed as though the dogs couldn’t tell human Kozlóv was the same entity as troll Kozlóv, and as such adopted him as their new master. There was no rush to get back to Berlin, so Kozlóv let the dogs go at their own pace, taking a break every few days to hunt for food. They stopped by the human boy to ensure his family were taking care of him. Scaarbach made a point of keeping his coat _on_ lest that one human man took offence and put him in a difficult situation again. It was different though. Kozlóv still hadn’t forgiven him, and so much of the journey was punctuated with icy, bitter silences every bit as inhospitable as the land around them.

Scaarbach sat on a rock, watching Kozlóv wrestling with the dogs. He had named them all but Scaarbach still struggled telling them apart. He was a little bit jealous, watching them throw themselves on the man, barking happily. Naturally they had never quite taken to him after they had seen him, human Scaarbach, attack their previous master. Eventually Kozlóv wandered back over to him, forgetting to wipe the smile off his face for a moment as he sat next to Scaarbach and drank some water from his canteen. When his smile faded it was as though a little bit of beauty fell from the world, and the reality of their grim circumstance pulled Scaarbach’s heart into an icy abyss.

“I need to say something, sir,” Scaarbach rubbed his mittens together, unable to fumble his hands awkwardly.

Kozlóv nodded for him to continue.

“It’s a confession,” Scaarbach admitted, “I really am sorry I did that to you, it was stupid and I should have just listened to your orders. I’ve been thinking about it since it happened, sir. Honestly I can barely think of anything else. I don’t expect you to forgive me, and I know that when I get back to Berlin I’m probably going to be lucky if I never see you again. But I’m not you. It’s not easy for me to do anything of value. I just wanted a chance to prove myself, I thought if I took her out on my own, people would realise there is so much more to me than how I started. It was wrong, I was stupid. I’m not like you sir, I’m not good at what I do. People don’t look at me and think ‘Wow, he does the Order credit just by _breathing_.’ Obviously someone like me is going to be mediocre for the rest of their life,” he continued bitterly, each word felt like a tug at the poker that had pierce deep into his thigh, “I don’t expect you to forgive me sir, I don’t deserve forgiveness. But please, _please_ , don’t tell the Order what I did. I’ve learned my lesson, truly I have. If the Order finds out what I did they’ll send you after me and I don’t want that to happen,” he let the words hang in the air for what felt like an eternity, “I guess I just… wanted to be you.”

Kozlóv frowned at him carefully, his arms crossed, as though considering every word seriously, “I worked with Velima for hundreds of years, Ottokar. You saw what I had to do to her,” he paused for a second, reconsidering his words, “You _heard_ what I had to do to her.”

Scaarbach winced, her screams still haunted him, perhaps they always would, “For a while I thought you were soft, but I was wrong. You’re just like _Them_ , you know that, sir?”

Kozlóv broke his thoughtful gaze, his expression strangely hollow and empty, “I’m impure, just like you,” he glanced across at the dogs and then back again, “Please call me Sasha again.”

“Why, Sasha? I don’t deser——” Scaarbach’s eyes widened in horror as he realised the changeling was kissing him, “No - no, wait!” he threw himself backwards and landed on his tail bone in the snow. One of the dogs rushed over and bounced around him as though waiting for a game.

“Are you hurt?” Kozlóv asked, “I’m sorry, I’m not actually… well—” he exhaled, “— That looked like it hurt.”

Scaarbach stared up at the sky, his cheeks flushed and completely stunned. He had told himself that the core of their relationship had been based on the principles of rule number three. Of all the selfish, human things they had done together they had both avoided kissing on the unspoken grounds that it was too genuine of an act. The thought that Kozlóv could have been harbouring _human feelings_ was definitely news to him. His own human feelings were less of a surprise but still, those feelings absolutely and emphatically needed to be quashed before he started giggling like a giddy fool.

He scrambled to his feet and sat back down on his rock, trying to remember how thought worked again, “I - I,” Scaarbach stammered, not daring to look at Kozlóv in case he went back for seconds, “I’m sorry. I panicked. It was just physical, no need to panic,” he laughed awkwardly.

“Of course,” Kozlóv coughed, “Just physical. Could you imagine if I actually… uh,” he stood up, fussing with his coat collars nervously, “Never mind.”

⁂

As they approached their destination, human settlements became closer and closer together. Their numbers bloomed, and Scaarbach longed for the cold, uncaring gaze of the wilderness. Under ordinary circumstances he disliked their presence, but as Kozlóv had not yet seen fit to bestow upon him a decent outfit, he found himself growing increasingly paranoid. Kozlóv had bought two horses and a humble carriage with money Scaarbach hadn’t known he still had, so at the very least he had a slightly smoother ride compared to the dogs. Kozlóv hadn’t had the heart to sell them, so they ran behind the horses gleefully or rode in the back with what precious few supplies they had remaining. It was growing late and Scaarbach dozed on Kozlóv’s shoulder, daydreaming of a steaming hot bath. Kozlóv elbowed him awake and Scaarbach realised they had stopped. He nudged Scaarbach again, urging him to get out. 

Scaarbach knew the drill, and gingerly slid to the ground, very careful to land on the leg that wasn’t stabbed first, and hobbled over to what he hoped was the entrance of the tavern as the dogs mingled around him like overexcited children. He held his coats closed as he waited for Kozlóv’s return, completely unable to do anything of use other than mind the dogs. It had been slow but eventually the dogs warmed up to him. They weren’t exactly friends, but at least they had stopped growling and nipping at him whenever Kozlóv was preoccupied with other business. The dogs barked happily as Kozlóv returned, running circles around him as they entered the tavern.

After they had eaten the watery slop being served as food, they retired to their room, Kozlóv hauling everything on his back while Scaarbach followed several steps behind. Kozlóv was already sitting on the small bed by the time he arrived, the dogs making themselves home on a carpeted spot on the floor. Without thinking Scaarbach grabbed the bag containing his things and unrolled his bedroll, laying it on the floor near the dogs. He was tired and all he wanted was to sleep.

“Ottokar,” Kozlóv said, patting the bed helpfully with his hand.

“Yes, Sasha?” Scaarbach yawned, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

“Take the bed,” Kozlóv insisted, “You’re still hurt.”

Scaarbach limped over and sat down, staring at him with half a mind to protest, “I’m fine,” he said, realising he wanted the bed more than anything in the world, “But I won’t argue,” he shrugged off his coats and kicked off his boots before Kozlóv had a chance to change his mind.

Kozlóv waited until he had snuggled under the blankets and threw the coats on top for good measure, “If we leave first thing we should get to St. Petersburg tomorrow evening.”

Scaarbach smiled wistfully, “I want a hot bath, and a shave, and real food, and real clothes.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Kozlóv laughed, “But for now get some sleep.”

⁂

Scaarbach awoke earlier than he was expecting. Kozlóv had woken him a few hours earlier with his nightmares, and had chosen to spend his cool down period snuggled up to Scaarbach on the bed. Not knowing what else to do, Scaarbach had pretended to be asleep and hoped Kozlóv hadn’t noticed he had been awake the whole time. It had not lent itself well to returning back to sleep. He forced himself to drag himself out of bed and sat down, scratching his hair. Kozlóv lay fast asleep on the ground in his bedroll under a mountain of dogs, each snoring gently in their slumber.

Being very careful to stay quiet, he pulled out his sadly neglected notebook from his pack and retrieved his last bit of charcoal. Scaarbach balanced it delicately on his good knee and got to work sketching the sleeping ‘pack’ as he waited for them to awake. Before he’d had a chance to work on more than a couple initial sketches, the door to their room opened and a man stood there, gawking at him in silence. The human said something potentially derogatory in Russian and made to enter the room. Aroused by the intrusion, two of the dogs leapt into action and barked at him, warning the human to back off. Kozlóv sat up, shrugging off the remaining dogs and stood to face the man. The man said something to Kozlóv, gesturing with his hand. Kozlóv rushed at the man, barking in Russian and slammed the door, turning his back on it immediately and leaning back, blocking it with his weight.

“I told you this would happen, Sasha!” Scaarbach whined, “Do you think he knows?”

“Pack up your things,” Kozlóv grunted, “It’s time to go.”

“I hate humans,” Scaarbach groaned, tucking his notebook away, “Are we even going to stop for breakfast?”

“No time,” Kozlóv replied, he looked down at the dogs and issued a command, gingerly backing away from the door.

Scaarbach pulled up the skirts of the dress and tied it around his waist, covering it with his coat, “Cursed humans and their cursed human ideas about their own accursed human fabrications,” he muttered under his breath as he hobbled around their room, helping Kozlóv gather their things.

⁂

Hours later, Scaarbach was still angry with the world, his arms crossed in front of him as he overheated in the large coat wrapped tightly around him, bouncing on the carriage seat next to Kozlóv as they made the final stretch to St. Petersburg.

“Do you think he would’ve even told someone?” Scaarbach wondered bitterly.

Kozlóv grunted, “Didn’t want to risk it.”

“Can we stop for food, Sasha?” Scaarbach asked.

“No,” Kozlóv replied.

Scaarbach sighed, “Very well,” his stomach growling in protest.

“Anradvia will cook for you,” Kozlóv continued.

Scaarbach sat silent for sometime, daydreaming about hot food and even hotter baths, “How long until St. Petersburg, Sasha?” he wondered.

“A few more hours, Ottokar,” Kozlóv replied grumpily.

Scaarbach took a deep breath, the end of their mission looming ever closer, “Sasha?”

“Yes, Ottokar?” Kozlóv asked.

“Please don’t tell everyone what I did,” Scaarbach squeezed himself tightly, still ashamed of his hubris.

“St. Petersburg have no right, Ottokar,” Kozlóv insisted, “They will only know that you were there.”

Scaarbach thought for a moment, “And please don’t tell anyone I can’t see.”

Kozlóv laughed, “It will be our secret, you funny little man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From what I could gather from what precious few resources I could find on the subject, the practice of dog-sledding in Russia at this time was unlikely, if not unheard of, at least by the majority Slavic population. However, consider that I also saw Balto as a child and the allure of Sasha adopting the remaining boys was far too strong me to resist. Especially after I felt so bad after the... stew...


	9. St. Petersburg Base of Operations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grateful to return to a higher standard of living, Scaarbach and the changeling assassin Kozlóv take a moment to clean themselves up and eat a hot meal before they return back on the road. In the privacy of their own company, Kozlóv finally admits to a secret he’s been holding onto the entire time.
> 
> CW: Discussions of Murder, Casual Nudity

Scaarbach had barely noticed the pawn shop before they had what had essentially been a year prior, but the anticipation of knowing it drew closer felt just like he was returning home. They arrived by noon, and the odd customer that loitered by the front counter had gawked as the two aggressively dishevelled men had made their way to the back, one carrying a mountain of gear and the other limping weakly behind, both surrounded by a small army of rambunctious dogs. Kozlóv led Scaarbach into what turned out to be the kitchen and left him to deal with the horses outside.

A young changeling girl stood by the table, watching Scaarbach as he tried to settle the over-excited dogs. To human eyes she didn’t look older than fourteen, a shy and mousey young thing. She sat across from him, not saying a word.

“Wölfin sent me,” Scaarbach explained, in case she didn’t know why he was there, “You know, to accompany Kozlóv on the mission?”

“I know, sir,” the girl replied, “Kozlóv said you’d get in the way,” she tilted her to the side, “What’s with the limp?”

Scaarbach sighed, “I fell on some ice,” he lied.

The girl snorted, “Of course the soft operative from headquarters is a bad liar,” she chuckled under her breath.

“I’m Scaarbach _actually_ ,” Scaarbach sighed, “And I’m _not_ soft.”

“I’m sorry sir, but if you’re not soft, then what’s with the big coat?” she asked.

“Don’t ask questions, egg,” Scaarbach hissed, “I’m still your superior, remember?”

“I’m not an egg,” the young changeling sniffed, “Wölfin sent me to study under Velima _three_ years ago.”

“A duckling then,” Scaarbach grimaced, “Cook me something then duckling, I’m starving.”

The changeling stood up, “It’s not a meal time, sir.”

“Duckling, my young friend, Kozlóv _promised_ I could have a hot meal, and a bath when we got to St. Petersburg, and we are _in_ St. Petersburg,” Scaarbach insisted, barely bothering to hide his desperation.

The dogs ran off through a door and came bounding back as Kozlóv returned, who annoyingly took the time to introduce them all personally to the young changeling.

“Oh I nearly forgot,” Kozlóv added, “Anradvia, this is Scaarbach. He accompanied me on the mission.”

Anradvia curtsied, “Good to meet you, sir,” she replied politely, “Um… Kozlóv, sir?” she asked, “About the mission—”

Kozlóv sighed, “I’m sorry child, Velima is gone.”

“I see,” Anradvia bowed her head solemnly.

“Have you been fronting St. Petersburg by yourself?” Kozlóv asked gently.

“No sir, Alžbeta has been running things in your absence, sir,” Anradvia replied, growing more and more mousey with every word.

Kozlóv nodded, “Good - good, and what about my store?”

“Alžbeta is there now sir, she’s been overseeing the family,” Anradvia fussed with her hands, “I can fetch her if you want?”

“No Anna,” Kozlóv purred, his voice fatherly and warm, “Scaarbach and I are hungry, fetch us something to eat.”

“Yes sir, right away sir,” Anradvia curtsied again, nearly falling over the dogs as she turned on her heels.

Kozlóv added another lengthy, apparently personal, instruction in Russian, “We’ll be waiting in my office,” he barked something at the dogs and they followed loyally behind him.

“Yes sir, of course sir,” Anradvia curtsied at them both as they left the room. Scaarbach thought he could hear the hint of a giggle but he couldn’t be sure of it.

⁂

Scaarbach followed Kozlóv as he led him up the stairs and into a crowded, poky room. Kozlóv pulled out a chair and gestured for Scaarbach to sit, chuckling at the dogs as they sniffed every corner and trinket.

“Take off your coat, Ottokar, you look a fool,” Kozlóv struck him convivially across the back.

Scaarbach did as he was told, and hung the heavy fur coat on the back of the chair. It immediately tipped over and crashed to the floor. He sighed and bent over, holding his leg at a strange angle so he didn’t have to bend it more than necessary, and put the chair back in place. He sat back down, leaving the coat to lie where it fell, pretending it never happened.

“What’s going to happen to Anradvia?” Scaarbach wondered, changing the subject before Kozlóv could make a joke.

“That’s up to Wölfin,” Kozlóv mused, picking up the coat and laying it across the dusty table next to them, “I expect Alžbeta will be made the next captain. She is… ruthless in all the right ways.”

Scaarbach looked at him in complete mystification, “Why can’t _you_ be captain?”

“I - I…,” Kozlóv stammered, apparently caught off guard, “Hmm.”

“If I was at St. Petersburg, I’d like you as my captain,” Scaarbach admitted, “You are—” he clutched at nothing as though trying to grasp the right word from the air, “— the perfect changeling.”

Kozlóv chuckled, “Perfectly impure, huh?”

“Yeah,” Scaarbach sighed, “That does sound insulting when you put it like that,” he tried to think of another way of saying it, “You… exemplify the ideals of the Janus Order.”

Kozlóv flexed awkwardly with his arms as though he didn’t know what to do with himself and muttered humbly under his breath, “I try.”

There was a polite rap on the door, “Kozlóv sir? Alžbeta has just arrived, what should I tell her, sir?” Anradvia sung out.

Kozlóv’s entire demeanour changed, “Send her in,” he grunted.

“What? Sasha no, please!” Scaarbach hissed desperately.

“Kozlóv,” Kozlóv corrected gruffly, “Act normal, you’ll be fine.”

Scaarbach threw himself in the direction of his coat, scrambling to cover himself in time. One of the dogs ran over, tugging on the hem of his coat, thinking it was a game. He gently kicked his boot in its general direction, trying to get the dog to let go, “Stop it!” he hissed, “Who trained you?”

The door opened and a woman stood in the doorway, too far away for Scaarbach to see any details of note, “Kozlóv,” she grunted, “Did you find her?”

“Yes,” Kozlóv grunted back.

There was a silence as her eyes seemed to turn to Scaarbach, caught playing tug-of-war with the dog, his coat slipping off, “Hi ma’am?” he hazarded, not entirely sure what normal was under the circumstances.

“Hi…?” Alžbeta hazarded in return, she turned to Kozlóv and the two spoke rapidly in Russian under their respective breaths, “Kozlóv put you up to this,” she concluded drily.

Scaarbach scowled, his coat sliding to the floor in a sorry thud, “It was a matter of unfortunate circumstances, ma’am.”

The changeling approached him and frowned, “What’s your name, operative?” Alžbeta asked, her voice cold and demanding.

“Scaarbach, ma’am,” Scaarbach replied, definitely seeing what Kozlóv had been talking about.

“You’re a disgrace, Scaarbach,” Alžbeta glowered at him up and down in disgust.

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am,” Scaarbach replied automatically.

“I hope you’re planning on getting yourself cleaned up before dinner,” Alžbeta continued.

“Of course, ma’am!” Scaarbach couldn’t help but feel offended at the thought he’d just stay like he was.

“Anradvia is arranging things, Alžbeta,” Kozlóv explained, “The mission was hard on him.”

Scaarbach flashed an angry glare in Kozlóv’s direction, resenting his implications, “Thanks, sir,” he muttered bitterly.

Alžbeta grunted, “This goes to you _too_ , Kozlóv. I refuse to dine with two swamp monsters who smell like something has died.”

“If you insist, my friend,” Kozlóv sighed wearily.

“And what’s with the dogs?” Alžbeta gestured in their general direction.

“Velima had them,” Kozlóv explained.

“What are they doing here?” Alžbeta sighed, her thin patience clearly waning.

Kozlóv grunted, “They’re good boys.”

“Are you going to _keep_ them?” Alžbeta asked, quietly horrified.

“Of course I am,” Kozlóv insisted.

⁂

Anradvia walked in the room and carefully placed a tray of food on the table. She took a look at Scaarbach, sitting in the chair by the window pretending he totally wasn’t wearing the clothes of a peasant woman Velima had most likely murdered. For a moment it looked like she was going to say something, but after glancing across at Kozlóv who stood there, daring her to say a word, decided better of it and curtsied her way out of the room. The sounds of unrestrained laughter echoed down the stairs and into the kitchen below. 

Scaarbach sighed and took his share of the meal. It wasn’t much, buckwheat porridge with a side of bread and a generous helping of butter, but it was hot. Finally, after a long and tedious day, he had something to quell the nagging pain in his empty gut. He gobbled it up ravenously, cursing the wilderness and the world, devoting himself entirely to the pursuit of satiating his basic fleshy hunger. He assumed Kozlóv was eating but he was too lost in himself to bother to look. Finished, Scaarbach wiped his mouth on his sleeve and laid back in the chair as much as it would allow. As miserable as life could be, a hot meal indoors made everything almost worth it.

He looked across at Kozlóv, watching him spoon the buckwheat into his mouth like his life depended on it. A soft, foggy melancholy hit him when Scaarbach realised the mission would soon be over, and after they returned to Berlin, they two would part ways, headed off in different assignments perhaps never to see each other again. He took a deep breath and crossed his arms. During the first half of the mission he had longed desperately for Berlin, returning home in his moment of triumph, but after his failure of judgement he loathed it like nothing else in the world. Scaarbach hadn’t much liked what he had seen of Alžbeta, and Anradvia was nothing but a duckling who wouldn’t make for riveting company, but there was something… homier in the St. Petersburg base than he had ever known in Berlin, or indeed anywhere else. He found himself actually wanting to transfer east, as detrimental that could be to his goal to working his way up the chain of command.

There was a polite rap on the door and Anradvia entered, curtsying at the door. Wordlessly, she collected the empty bowls back onto the tray, and curtsied her way back out of the room. She returned not three minutes later carrying another tray and placed it on the table.

“Alžbeta insists, sirs,” Anradvia explained, her cheeks beginning to glow.

“Anna, your age is showing,” Kozlóv said, a slight hint of humour betrayed in his tone.

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s just very funny, sir. I’m trying _really_ hard, sir,” Anradvia audibly tried to stifle another outburst of laughter.

Scaarbach sighed, accepting defeat, “Laugh, little duckling, I don’t care anymore.”

To her credit, Anradvia made a show of overcoming herself and nodded professionally, “Alžbeta primed the blade herself, sir, it should be ready to use.”

Scaarbach’s eyes widened when he realised what was on the tray, “Thank you! You have no idea how much this means to me,” he pawed over the contents of the tray. A straight razor, freshly sharpened, scissors, hopefully also freshly sharpened, a bowl of water and a slither of soap, a rag and brush, a weathered comb, and a strip of leather and handheld strop just in case, “Wait, duckling, where is the mirror?” he asked, lifting up the rag in case it was hiding.

“There’s no mirror, sir,” Anradvia replied.

“Well how am I supposed to use this damned thing if I can’t see?” Scaarbach demanded, flourishing the blade in front of her, “I _require_ a reflective surface!”

“I could do it, sir,” Anradvia replied, grinning dangerously.

“No!” Scaarbach yelped, “You wouldn’t know the first thing about shaving safely.”

“My father used to make me do it for him because my mother’s hand shook,” Anradvia replied, “I did it for years until he died, sir.”

“How did the human die, duckling?” Scaarbach asked, already seeing where things were going.

“I slit his throat because he—” Anradvia stopped before she incriminated herself more thoroughly, “Ach yes, I see your point, sir.”

“Enough, Anna,” Kozlóv waved his hand dismissively, “Go fetch Velima’s tub and bring it here, and then boil some more water.”

“Yes sir,” Anradvia curtsied, “Right away, sir.”

Kozlóv waited for her to close the door behind her and turned to Scaarbach, rubbing his hands together, “Don’t worry, I’ve done this before.”

“No!” Scaarbach yelled, covering his face protectively, “I don’t trust you.”

“Ottokar,” Kozlóv replied, his brows furrowing, “Please?”

Scaarbach sighed, “Very well, fine,” he deflated, “But only because I am desperate.”

“Thank you,” Kozlóv grunted, brandishing the scissors in his hand, “If I was going to hurt you I wouldn’t be such a coward when I did it.”

Scaarbach narrowed his eyes, “Thanks Sasha, I am suddenly _filled_ with confidence.”

Kozlóv chuckled, leaning over him and taking the end of his unkempt beard in his hand, “You talk too much,” he said, snipping with the scissors.

“Yeah - yeah,” Scaarbach replied, rolling his eyes.

Scaarbach let Kozlóv trim off the excess hair on his face, already feeling more civilised for it. He soaked the cloth in the hot water and lay it on the lower portion of Scaarbach’s face and let it rest for several minutes. Anradvia let herself in, dragging the biggest tub Scaarbach had ever squinted at into the middle of the room, pausing a moment to consider her placement, adjusting, and then left again, closing the door behind her. Kozlóv removed the cloth and made a lather using the brush, applying it thickly.

Kozlóv then unsheathed the razor and frowned, “Like before?”

“Yes please,” Scaarbach replied, eyeing the blade with suspicion.

“Lift your chin,” Kozlóv said, the razor waiting in his hand.

Scaarbach did as he was told and gulped. He’d never actually allowed anyone to go near him with a razor before and he wondered what had possessed him to change his mind. When the blade made contact against his skin he strained to keep eye contact with Kozlóv in the hopes he could see murderous intent before anything happened. As it turned out, nothing happened. His cheeks burned in an overwhelming cocktail of fear, anticipation, and self-conscious anxieties, but Kozlóv was nothing but careful and methodical. Before he knew it, Kozlóv had wiped the remains of the suds aside, and was standing over him with a sparkle in his eyes, nodding as though to admire his handiwork.

“What?” Scaarbach asked, gently rubbing his cheeks that were blessedly smooth after months and months of untamed and annoyingly itchy growth.

“You’re… prettier than I remembered,” Kozlóv mused thoughtfully.

Scaarbach rolled his eyes, “And you say _I’m_ blind.”

“Come on, get up,” Kozlóv insisted, patting the good thigh, “Trim my beard would you, Ottokar?”

“Very well, Sasha,” Scaarbach sighed, standing up and grabbing the comb and scissors.

Kozlóv took his seat and looked up at him, his eyes twinkling in the light from the window, “Anradvia likes you,” Kozlóv said as Scaarbach used the last of the water to dampen his beard, “You probably can’t see, but she only smiles like that at people she likes.”

“Oh,” Scaarbach replied, trying to detangle the mess from the bottom with his hand and the comb, “She laughed at me and called me ‘the soft operative from headquarters,’ Sasha.”

Kozlóv chuckled, “That means she likes you.”

“What about Alžbeta?” Scaarbach asked, already knowing the answer.

“You’ll grow on her,” Kozlóv frowned.

Scaarbach pulled out the scissors and began snipping, “I doubt it. It’s been over a hundred years and everyone in Berlin ignores me or worse,” he sighed, “How short should I go?”

“Not too short,” Kozlóv replied.

Scaarbach continued snipping, pausing only when Anradvia entered carrying a pile of clothes and placed them on something large and dark in the corner of the room. She scurried off and returned with a tray and placed it on the floor next to the empty tub. She left the room again, the sound of conversation echoing up the stairs from below. It wasn’t long before he was finished and Anradvia was back, emptying a large pan of water into the tub with Alžbeta’s help. It took five pans to fill the tub up, and Anradvia left to slink down the stairs once again to get a start on their dinner. Kozlóv himself had fumbled in the dark corners of the room and pulled out an ordinary basin for himself to bathe in, and dragged the chair over to the tub.

“The clothes are my husband’s,” Alžbeta explained, “If you want the latest _French_ fashions, you’ll have to pay for them yourself,” she gestured vaguely in Scaarbach’s direction, “And _use_ the soap,” she sighed wearily.

“Yes ma’am, thank you ma’am, of course ma’am,” Scaarbach replied, eager for her to leave.

“And that goes for you too, Kozlóv,” Alžbeta glowered, pointing a finger accusatorially at the changeling.

Kozlóv grunted, “Yes - yes, Alžbeta. Leave now, we have… secret men’s business.”

“What?” Alžbeta asked suspiciously, “Oh… yes, of course. I’ve no interest in your… men’s business,” she added, disgust raising in her voice as she looked them up and down.

Kozlóv not so passively herded her out of the room and closed the door, locking it with a key, “Sorry about that,” he apologised, spinning on his heels, “Human ritual bathing time,” unceremoniously he stripped off his clothes and sat on the chair, pawing at the rag the other changelings had provided.

At long last, Scaarbach stripped off the clothes he’d had no choice but to wear for the last several months and lowered himself into the tub of hot, near scalding water. It was difficult to get his leg to bend but he won over himself using spite, stubbornness and a muttered curse in every language he knew. He took the rag, covering the slither of soap he’d been afforded, and viciously scrubbed every inch of his skin as though to remove the taint of his mistakes. After his skin was bright pink from the hot water and friction, and he washed his hair with the soap, Scaarbach allowed himself to sink back into the tub and relax, closing his eyes and listening to the methodical sound of Kozlóv’s scrubbing. 

It had been months, nearly a whole year, since he’d last bathed properly. He’d ached for it for every second. It was even better than he remembered. He ran a hand up across his skin, feeling the fresh, raised scars left behind by Velima and the dogs. They were ugly and itched, occasionally tingling with sharp pains, but they were nothing compared to the ones nestled deep within the muscles of his thigh as they tried to heal. He pressed down, exploring the wound, wondering how long he had until he could walk without limping. Scaarbach heard the creak of the chair as Kozlóv stood and made his way behind him in the direction of the dark shadows of the room, but he was too lost in his own meditations to care or pay attention. Kozlóv made a considerable amount of noise rummaging around, opening drawers and moving furniture.

Scaarbach made a face, annoyed, “Can’t you be quiet?” he snapped.

Footsteps approached from behind, and Kozlóv squatted next to the tub, “More water?”

“Huh?” Scaarbach opened his eyes and turned to the changeling, realising he was fully dressed.

“The water must be getting cold now, yes?” Kozlóv asked helpfully.

“Oh,” Scaarbach frowned, “Yes actually.”

“I’ll get it,” Kozlóv chuckled, “Don’t want the girls to see your secrets.”

Scaarbach laughed weakly, “No, we don’t.”

Kozlóv gave him a friendly nudge on the shoulder, grabbed the basin he had used earlier and made to leave the room, pausing to unlock the door before closing it behind him. Paranoid, Scaarbach withdrew his feet back into the bath and curled up, as though huddling against the cold. He didn’t dare to close his eyes, instead religiously watching the door waiting for it to open. Eventually it did, and Kozlóv returned, basin in his arms. He tipped it out gingerly into the tub, careful to not pour it directly onto Scaarbach’s already pink and damaged skin.

“Better?” Kozlóv asked, leaning over the bath.

Scaarbach nodded, “Thank you, Sasha.”

Kozlóv covered Scaarbach’s mouth, “Not with the door open, yes?” he whispered.

“Srrbly?” Scaarbach mumbled, slightly confused.

Kozlóv got to his feet and relocked the door behind them, “I’m sorry,” he apologised, squatting next to the tub again, “Don’t call me that when other impure can hear you.”

“I know, I know,” Scaarbach sighed, “What happens on the mission, stays on the mission.”

“Anradvia is a notorious gossip and Alžbeta would never—” Kozlóv made a series of expressions like a small child who had just drunk vinegar, gesticulating wildly with his hands, “— approve.”

Scaarbach grimaced, “And Berlin is the worst combination of both.”

“So you understand?” Kozlóv wondered.

“Of course,” Scaarbach scoffed, “This was always just rule number three.”

Kozlóv leant over and gave Scaarbach a peck on the cheek, “Exactly,” he stood and returned to the dark corner of the room.

Scaarbach closed his eyes, unable to wipe a smirk off his face, and listened to the subtle sounds of Kozlóv turning the pages of a book. He hoped it wasn’t Velima’s journal but he had resolved himself to have nothing to do with it, refusing to even acknowledge the book’s existence. He lay, half-asleep, until the welcoming warmth from the water faded away and he knew it was time to climb out.

Scaarbach dried himself off using the flannel left for him, and hobbled into the dark corners of the room to fetch Alžbeta’s husband’s old clothes. To his surprise, he discovered the reason it had been bathed in darkness was not due to poor lighting but that what he had perceived as darkness had in fact been the faded curtains of an old but ornate four poster bed. It was not particularly wide, or long, but it was still shockingly extravagant for the otherwise humble pawn shop and its inhabitants. Kozlóv lay on it, quietly reading his book as Scaarbach dressed himself. The shoes Alžbeta supplied were slightly too long, and promised to rub his heels as he walked, but it was better to wear ill-fitting and scuffed leather shoes than the weathered boots he had travelled with. The clothes themselves were not as out of date as Scaarbach had feared, perhaps only being ten years old, and he supposed he looked perfectly ordinary if not downright unremarkable in appearance.

Seated on the bed, Scaarbach turned to Kozlóv and frowned, “You said this was an office.”

Kozlóv chuckled and closed his book, “We are pressed for space,” he explained, “This is an office, storeroom, _and_ bedroom.”

“Ah,” Scaarbach rested his face in his hands, unable to stop touching his smooth jaw, “So this is your bedroom?”

“Yes,” Kozlóv replied.

“Just you?” Scaarbach wondered, “By yourself?”

Kozlóv was silent, as though caught off guard, “No, I wasn’t alone.”

“Who else then?” Scaarbach asked, feeling a deep, wretched feeling in his stomach.

“Velima,” Kozlóv replied sheepishly, “And Anradvia in the dead of winter.”

Scaarbach turned to Kozlóv, “You lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie,” Kozlóv insisted.

“You told me she was just your captain, but that wasn’t true, was it?” Scaarbach crossed his arms.

Kozlóv edged closer to him, his hollow expression coming into sharp focus, “Fine, I lied. We lived as man and wife for many years,” he sighed.

The sounds of pleading echoed in Scaarbach’s memories, “You didn’t have to,” he said quietly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Kozlóv dismissed, “I like your work,” he added, clearly trying to change the subject.

“My what now?” Scaarbach asked, entirely confused.

Kozlóv handed over the book he was reading, which to Scaarbach’s horror turned out to be his very own notebook, “I found it in my things,” he explained.

Scaarbach snatched the book and held it close to his chest, “It - it’s just something I do when I’m bored,” he stammered.

“You get bored a lot then,” Kozlóv chuckled.

“Which one was your favourite?” Scaarbach asked, desperate for approval in all things.

Kozlóv took the book back and flicked through several pages, “This one.”

Scaarbach looked down at the page and smiled, it had been a joke, a double page spread left blank other than the words ‘the white rabbit on a winter’s day’ written in the top right hand corner, “Ah - ha,” he grinned, “Of course it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh the quiet homoerotism of mutual grooming.


	10. Some Kind of Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scaarbach makes a friend in the Janus Order’s St. Petersburg base of operations, and the two bemoan their fate in the human world, destined to follow the orders of those who don’t actually care about anything other than the mission.
> 
> CW: Sexual References, References to Coercion into Marriage, Violence, Injury, Implied References to Murder

Scaarbach sat at the dining table quietly eating his humble meal of broth, fish, and spring vegetables. It was nothing fancy but may well have been a feast in his eyes. At the head of the table sat a man who had been introduced as Alžbeta’s husband. His silhouette was familiar and Scaarbach vaguely remembered seeing him behind the pawn shop’s counter. Scaarbach found himself seated next to Alžbeta, and Kozlóv, and facing Anradvia who sat next to Alžbeta’s mother-in-law. The five of them conversed casually amongst one another in Russian as a family, laughing at each other’s jokes and making sideways looks in Scaarbach’s direction. Part of him wondered if it were all an act for human benefit, but another wasn’t sure. As he finished his meal, Scaarbach was surprised to find that Anradvia got up from her chair and dished him seconds. 

“The old human insists, sir,” Anradvia smiled awkwardly, “Even if you are a foreigner. Her words, not mine.”

“Why are you the only one to speak to me?” Scaarbach wondered, since he had her attention.

Anradvia sighed, “I’m the only one fluent in German in this house, sir. We could lie and say our own language is German, but then if an actual German tried to speak with Alžbeta or Kozlóv it would be obvious they couldn’t understand, sir.”

Scaarbach nodded, “So you’re the only changeling I can talk to in front of the humans,” he concluded.

The young changeling returned to her seat, “Please remember I’ve been on the surface for sixteen entire years, sir,” Anradvia smoothed out her skirts primly, “If the humans suspect for even a moment that there’s favour between us, it could get me into trouble.”

“I see,” Scaarbach sighed, “I’ll keep quiet then, duckling.”

“It’s already been decided you will sleep in the hall by the stairs because the old lady doesn’t trust you to sleep with us in the kitchen,” Anradvia continued.

Scaarbach rolled his eyes, “Of course.”

He finished as much of his seconds as he could possibly manage in silence while the others apparently had the time of their lives. When they had finished Anradvia helped the other women clear the table, and Kozlóv poured the men drinks as they kicked back and relaxed. Scaarbach sipped on the spirits, not entirely sure what to do with himself. With the human present he couldn’t be seen speaking to Kozlóv, and the one person he could be seen talking to, he couldn’t due to potential misunderstandings of either of their intentions. He sighed. So much of human society was needless and pointless, but there was only so much rebelling one could do in public before drawing dangerous attention to oneself. Scaarbach waited until he had finished his glass and then slunk off into the hall when the others weren’t paying attention.

After the careful logistics of lowering himself to sit on the stairs, Scaarbach sat with his hands on his blessedly hedge free face and lost himself in his own thoughts. He wasn’t sure how long he was going to be stuck wafting around the house, pretending to be whomever the changelings had informed the humans he was. Whatever underlying desire to transfer to the base had faded and he was left with the same hollow feeling he felt in every setting with humans. There was the sound of approaching footsteps and Scaarbach looked up to find Kozlóv staring down at him. 

Without a word Kozlóv pulled Scaarbach to his feet, escorting him behind the staircase where no one would see them, “Meet in my room after everyone has fallen asleep,” he hissed under his breath.

Scaarbach looked up at him, a shiver of paranoia running up his spine, “Is something wrong?” he whispered.

“No - no,” Kozlóv patted him convivially on the shoulder, “Just be discreet.”

“Is it a Sasha thing or a Kozlóv thing?” Scaarbach asked, not entirely sure what he was being asked to do.

“Sasha,” Kozlóv replied bluntly.

Scaarbach peered around the corner, ensuring they weren’t overheard, “Good.”

⁂

It was late, and Scaarbach lay in his bedroll in the hall in front of the stairs, wide awake. He strained his ears, listening for signs the others had fallen asleep. Across the hall he could hear the soft sounds of marital conversation from Alžbeta’s room but eventually even they faded. Cautiously he stood up, throwing an old banyan-like garment Alžbeta had loaned him over his undershirt. A floorboard under him creaked, and he waited, frozen, ensuring no one had heard him. After an adequate amount of time had passed, he continued down the hall, slowly so as not to creak the floor under him, but also to not make his limp audible. 

He carefully pushed open Kozlóv’s door and closed it behind him. A fire crackled happily in the fireplace, the mountain of sleeping dogs illuminated, if not in clarity than general form, under it’s soft glow. Scaarbach made his way to the dark corner of the room where he knew Kozlóv would be waiting. Scaarbach approached, the curtains pulled aside and his eyes met with Kozlóv’s that glowed brightly in the darkness.

“Don’t make a sound,” Kozlóv whispered, “Did anyone see you?”

Scaarbach shook his head confident he had been successful in his domestic stealth, obediently holding his tongue. The only sound was that of his banyan-like garment as he shrugged it to the ground.

⁂

Scaarbach awoke early. It was still dark, but the light from a lantern had woken him prematurely. He heard a rustling behind him and shot upright, turning to face the human man, dressed in nothing but his undershirt, going through his things. Scaarbach made a mad lunge at the pack, trying to get it out of the man’s grip, but he retaliated by also grabbing the pack, using all his weight to give himself the upper hand. The contents spilled out onto the floor, including Velima’s magic-infused hunting knife. The human let go of the pack at once to grab the knife but Scaarbach snatched and held it to his chest defensively. Things had gone on far too long. 

“Duckling!” Scaarbach yelled, “Duckling!” he repeated, more angrily the second time.

There was the thudding of someone running up the stairs and Anradvia met them at the top, holding a lantern and panting. She pulled at the scarf she had hurriedly tied around her head, wearing a shift and open robe on top.

“Tell this human to leave my things alone!” Scaarbach hissed angrily.

Anradvia rubbed her eyes sleepily and set the lantern down, “I don’t understand, sir?”

The human ranted something at her in Russian angrily, gesturing at the knife in Scaarbach’s hand.

“He says you’re a thief and stole that knife from the shop, sir,” Anradvia explained, “Oh, that’s Velima’s isn’t it? Shit.”

“Why aren’t your humans better trained?” Scaarbach demanded, “Sweet Lady’s tits, this base is the domain of the Order! How have you not already been compromised?”

Anradvia shrunk under his rantings, “I’m sorry sir. I’ll sort it out straight away, sir,” she turned to the human and spoke rapidly in Russian.

The human replied even more rapidly, the two going back and forth, their tempers clearly rising. With a venomous tone, he pulled his fist back and punched the young changeling in the face. Scaarbach turned to Anradvia. She stood staring blankly ahead, her nose dripping with blood. For a second her eyes flashed angrily and she lunged at the man, yelling and screaming, pushing him to the ground. Scaarbach stood back, watching the two wrestle, decency thrown completely to the wind. Alžbeta and Kozlóv burst in through their respective doors and tried to pry the two apart. Kozlóv held the human back, as Alžbeta yelled at Anradvia in Russian. Anradvia pleaded back, gesturing with her hands at Scaarbach as he still clung to the blade, the emptied pack on the ground, and the human, his face glowing red with unmistakable rage. Alžbeta listened patiently to the young changeling and then turned to her husband angrily, her voice icy with fury. As the three bickered, Anradvia took the opportunity to slip off, unnoticed, running down the stairs, obviously distraught. But she had not been unnoticed by all. 

Scaarbach picked up Anradvia’s lantern which had fortunately not toppled during the dispute, and snuck down the stairs, Velima’s knife in his other hand. He found Anradvia hiding behind the staircase, her arms crossed defensively across her chest, sulking like a young child.

“Go away,” Anradvia muttered.

“You’re still bleeding, duckling,” Scaarbach hazarded, unable to offer her anything.

Anradvia sniffed and untied the scarf around her head, bunching it up and holding it against her nose. She sunk to the ground, her back to the wall, and sighed.

For decency sake, Scaarbach did the same, “Is he always like that?” he asked quietly.

Anradvia frowned, “Sometimes he gets ideas,” she replied nasally.

“Humans,” Scaarbach spat bitterly, “You should kill him.”

“No,” Anradvia sighed, “Alžbeta will be mad at me for destroying her cover,” a long silence fell between them, “The butcher’s son has taken a liking to me.”

“So?” Scaarbach asked, not quite understanding her point.

“So… when the Order decides I must marry, it will probably have to be him,” Anradvia sighed.

“You’re sixteen,” Scaarbach scoffed, “You don’t have to worry about that yet.”

“Exactly,” Anradvia moaned, “I have less years than fingers on my hand.”

“Don’t you like the boy?” Scaarbach wondered.

“He’s not Kozlóv,” Anradvia sighed.

“What’s special about Kozlóv?” Scaarbach asked, pretending he didn’t know the answer.

Anradvia twirled a lock of black hair around her finger absently, “Don’t laugh but I trust him.”

Scaarbach thought about how he had let Kozlóv shave him earlier, “He killed Velima,” he said, mostly to himself, “I didn’t do anything, it was all him.”

“I know, but I want to marry him,” Anradvia insisted.

“You’re sixteen,” Scaarbach repeated in case she had somehow forgotten.

“Only on the surface,” Anradvia added, hazarding to remove her scarf for a moment.

“And how old all up?” Scaarbach sighed, knowing full well she still would barely be an adult by changeling standards.

“One and a half centuries,” Anradvia held her head up proudly.

Scaarbach frowned at her disbelievingly.

“Fine, one and a quarter centuries,” Anradvia huffed.

“Baby duckling,” Scaarbach insisted.

“It’s not like I want to get married at all,” Anradvia pouted, “I used to work with Velima you know? Birthing babies, that kind of thing. I _know_ what marriage is like.”

Scaarbach wasn’t sure how to respond, “If the Order tells you to cut off your hand, you have to cut off your hand.”

Anradvia looked at her hands, “I thought the surface meant freedom.”

“I’m sorry, duckling,” Scaarbach sighed, “Us impure only have one purpose no matter where we are.”

“If I have to marry,” Anradvia continued, “I’d rather it was to another changeling. Someone who knows better than to hit me or anything like that.”

Scaarbach sighed, it was like talking to his past self except worse, “That’s not why the Order asks us to marry. We’re supposed to learn things.”

“Did you have to marry?” Anradvia asked, “What did _you_ learn?”

“I - I,” Scaarbach stammered, “I learned it’s no fun to be a wife.”

“Ach,” Anradvia slumped, disappointed.

Scaarbach thought for a moment and presented her with Velima’s hunting knife, “Here, you should have it.”

Anradvia took the knife, unsheathing it, her face bathed in unnatural green light, “This really is her blade.”

“Consider it a premature wedding present,” Scaarbach shrugged.

Anradvia’s face broke for a second, “I don’t deserve this.”

“No you don’t, duckling,” Scaarbach nodded, “But your husband might,” he added, smirking.

Anradvia smiled and pulled up her shift, tying the sheathed blade to her thigh. They sat together in silence, both lost in the frustrations that came with being a changeling.

“I’m sorry I laughed at you,” Anradvia said, her voice low with humility, “It was unfair of me.”

Scaarbach sighed, “No - no, I’m quite used to being laughed at. Happens every day.”

“Your shirt is on backwards,” Anradvia added.

Scaarbach looked down and realised she was right, “Shit,” he cursed, “Uh, it’s something I do when I’m sleeping,” he lied, tucking his arms under the sleeves and spinning the shirt around.

Anradvia smirked at him wryly, “Odd habit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sure in every location around the world where changelings are secretly stationed, each has their own little centuries long soap opera playing out with petty grudges, complicated affairs, and changing alliances. Which is... low key what this fic is, I suppose.


	11. Berlin Headquarters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scaarbach and the changeling assassin Kozlóv return to the Janus Order Headquarters to deliver the good and bad news about Velima, but a humiliating rumour spreads at the expense of Scaarbach and he struggles to uphold what little reputation he had left within the Order.
> 
> CW: Bullying in the Work Place (?), Deception, Cruelty to Musical Instruments, Secondhand Embarrassment

The journey from St. Petersburg to Berlin was both agonisingly slow and horrifyingly fast. They stopped at the Janus Order bases along the way, through Vilnius and Warsaw, never staying in one spot for more than a day. Despite reason, Kozlóv had chosen to bring the dogs with him, not willing to leave them behind in St. Petersburg. They slept in shady taverns and boarding houses, never getting a moment to themselves. Scaarbach learned to long for the road, as it meant the time he could discuss things with Kozlóv without at least one random stranger trying to listen in. 

The two changelings were an hour away from Berlin headquarters, Scaarbach knew the area like the back of his hand. Kozlóv seemed to realise this as well and sat with his back straight, looking very imposing and severe in the soft drizzle.

“Sasha?” Scaarbach asked, his heart sinking somewhere towards his stomach.

“Yes Ottokar?” Kozlóv replied automatically.

“Promise me you won’t tell everyone what I did,” Scaarbach looked dead ahead, not daring to look the changeling in the eyes.

Kozlóv sighed, “I will only tell what details are necessary,” he squeezed Scaarbach on the shoulder, “I promise.”

Scaarbach sat up straight, trying to hide his internal screaming as they approached the headquarters.

⁂

Scaarbach gulped as the carriage came to a halt. Kozlóv had parked near the side, so people couldn’t see the two men and dogs as they entered what appeared to be a perfectly ordinary school for orphans. They crawled through the secret passage and climbed down into the hidden catacombs below. It had once been used to house the bones of the dead, a place for human indulgence that had been lost to time. The Order had cleared out the tombs, removed most of the bones, keeping only what they required for decoration. 

Scaarbach took a deep, familiar breath, and gathered his strength. He first headed to his quarters, a narrow space that fit a bed, a chest and small desk, but nothing else. He put away his things, wiping the dust that gathered and shaking out his musty bedding. He pulled out some paper, and some ink, and took to work, writing his report under the dim glow of a small fragment of living stone. He kept things brief and to the point, Wölfin wouldn’t tolerate him wasting her time with unnecessary details. With his report completed, Scaarbach sat on his bed as the ink dried and said a quick prayer to the Lady, asking for her strength, knowing it was time.

With tentative steps, Scaarbach headed off to find the Strix, Wölfin. He wound his way through the dark and labyrinthine catacombs, ignoring the odd changeling as he passed them, his steps echoing underfoot. Scaarbach found himself at last at the door to her office, marked by a human skull embedded into the very wood itself, fat rubies shone in its eye sockets, and a crown of daggers sat upon its temple. He rapped on the door frame, and waited until she let him in. 

Wölfin was a very severe woman, and had little time for fuss or frills. When humans weren’t present, she had taken to wearing boots, breeches and military coats, and it suited her more than a dress ever could. She grunted at Scaarbach and gestured for him to enter. He hobbled in, humbling himself under her icy glare, and stood in front of her desk. Remembering himself, he patted his jacket, and presented her with the report he had scrawled out in his quarters moments before.

“Very well, let’s hear it then,” Wölfin sighed, not even looking at the report.

Scaarbach took a deep breath, “I arrived at St. Petersburg mid October. Kozlóv and I set off to the location she had last been seen, a safe haven. There we found a rune stick written in Changeling. Kozlóv confirmed Velima had written it. She was headed for Siberia where she believed traitors had built a sanctuary. We travelled further east where we found several more rune sticks, often in or around human buildings, with the corpses of the humans scattered without ceremony. They had had their throat cut from behind, a kill favoured by Velima. There was no doubt that it was her. Kozlóv confirmed it. One time we found a survivor, a little boy. He had been alone for approximately two weeks by the time we found him. He had seen Velima but due to his young age we decided that he was unlikely to expose us and let him live, ma’am,” Scaarbach took a moment to catch his breath, “At some point she picked up dogs and travelled with the pack, eating whatever they could find. On several occasions, it felt like she had gifted us with the buildings as they were stocked with food when we were running out of supplies. Our horses died, so Kozlóv pulled our sleigh himself. In late January we finally encountered Velima situated in a hut. It was night, and we could smell the smoke and dogs. We approached on foot and made a tent in hiding. Kozlóv ordered me to stay hidden until dawn, where we could attack in daylight, ma’am,” he fell silent, dreading the words he was going to have to say.

“I don’t have all day, Scaarbach,” Wölfin insisted, leaning back on her desk.

“I - I…,” Scaarbach grimaced, “I thought this was a stupid plan, so I took the initiative do the assassination on my own, ma’am.”

Wölfin made a deep frustrated noise, “Scaarbach you were under strict orders to observe and assist. What you are describing is insubordination at best. Tell me this was at least a spontaneous decision.”

Scaarbach gulped, “No, I can’t ma’am. I planned it from the beginning. I let Kozlóv believe I was soft for him, it was easy, he wanted to believe it. Then when the time came I took the rest of our food supplies, and fed them to her dogs. Velima heard me and warned me off, but I convinced her I had lost my stone and wanted sanctuary in Siberia. She let me in her hut and fed me broth. We talked for a while. She had definitely lost her stone, ma’am, I am sure of it. She turned her back on me for a second so I leapt on the chance and tried to kill her. But she threw me off and stabbed my leg with a poker from the fire. That was when the dogs attacked me and Kozlóv came. He demanded we show our faces and she ran off. Outside the hut Kozlóv killed her.”

“Why?” Wölfin demanded, “Why would you even do that?”

Scaarbach gulped, fussing with his hands, “I didn’t believe Kozlóv could do it better than me, ma’am, and I’ve been in the Order for over a hundred years and I’m nothing but a useless vulture. I’m not happy to just stagnate at the bottom of the chain of command when we have an even more important mission to fulfil!”

“Kozlóv can tear trolls limb from limb, he can crush their skulls in his jaw, he can uproot trees like they are grass, and raze a citadel to the ground with nothing but his crown,” Wölfin said each word like daggers, sinking them in with the sheer venom of her tone, “What makes you, Scaarbach, you who can barely deliver a piece of paper to our rivals in Brussels, what makes you think you could ever begin to compare to a _beast_ like Kozlóv?”

Scaarbach stared into the mid-distance, drowning in shame and despair, “Please give me a chance to prove myself, ma’am. I promise there’s more to me than just delivering letters!”

Wölfin burst into humourless laughter, “Why would I do that? You stole a chance and brought shame upon yourself. No, worse! You disobeyed direct orders and nearly cost us the mission! If it wasn’t for Kozlóv, Velima would be in Siberia right now! I must confess I didn’t have high hopes for you, yet somehow you still manage to disappoint me.”

“Please!” Scaarbach pleaded, “If you’d just give me another chance!”

Wölfin waved her hand angrily, “Enough! You’re in no position to bargain, Scaarbach,” she sighed, “If, after hearing Kozlóv’s side of the story, and speaking things over with Sidonia, I believe that you have enough potential. That you will demonstrate an appropriate level of obedience, loyalty and respect for your superiors from this point on, no matter how foolish or inaccurate you believe them to be, or how inconvenient their decisions are to you—” she exhaled as though his presence bored her senseless, “— I will consider granting you another chance. Be warned. You will not _like_ this chance. Prove yourself to be the person we need you to be, not the changeling at the top of the pile you _wish_ yourself to be.”

Scaarbach gasped, “Thank you, ma’am. I understand exactly, ma’am.”

“Enough, you’re dismissed,” Wölfin waved her hand again, “Stay in the catacombs and await further instructions. That’s an order, Scaarbach!”

“Yes ma’am, of course ma’am,” Scaarbach grovelled his way out of her office and faced Kozlóv looking down on him, entourage in tow.

Kozlóv put his hands on Scaarbach’s shoulders and nodded, “Wish me luck,” he said, ordering his boys to sit and entering her office.

“Good luck, sir,” Scaarbach replied, buzzing with anticipation.

⁂

Scaarbach headed off in the direction of the common room, longing for a pleasure he hadn’t had the chance to indulge in the better part of the last year. He hobbled his way through the dark hallways, ignoring any changelings he passed. Angrily he sat himself down at the harpsichord and began to play. He jammed his fingers into the keys, running them to ruin as he vented his frustration in a way that didn’t involve screaming like a frustrated child. A familiar silhouette approached him and leant on the end of the instrument.

“Go away, Živný,” Scaarbach spat through gritted teeth as he continued to play.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Scaarbach,” Živný grinned at him toothily, “I was beginning to think that you’d finally lost your stone.”

“Shut up, Živný,” Scaarbach flashed him an angry look.

“Couldn’t help noticing you walk with a limp now,” Živný shoved his shoulder in an overly familiar manner, “What’s up with that?”

“That’s classified, Živný,” Scaarbach growled, refusing to let the changeling interrupt his musically inclined venting.

Živný held his hand in front of Scaarbach’s eyes, “I broke your violin.”

“You did _what_?!” Scaarbach roared, rising to his feet.

Živný shrugged carelessly, “You know how they don’t like to be ignored, I took her on the road with me.”

“She was in _my_ quarters, you filth!” Scaarbach yelled.

“Oh come on, Scaarbach,” Živný purred, “You can’t leave for as long as you did and not expect someone to pick the locks into your quarters,” his wicked grin spread across his disgustingly boyish face, “I found your _secret_ sketchbook.”

“Give it back!” Scaarbach demanded, his cheeks glowing with rage.

Živný made a childish face, “Ew no! I didn’t keep it, how disgusting!” he leant forward conspiratorially, “I just wanted your _lady_.”

“I’ll tell Sidonia!” Scaarbach pouted, “Theft is against the rules.”

“The Grand Commandant doesn’t care about your shitty violin,” Živný laughed.

“She wasn’t shitty,” Scaarbach sulked, “She just had a tinny voice, that’s all.”

“She didn’t sound tinny when I smashed her against that human’s head,” Živný grinned.

“Živný!” Scaarbach despaired, it had taken him forever to save for that violin.

Živný shrugged, spreading his arms wide in a mock gesture of submission, “You know how I love a brawl after a beer… or twenty.”

Scaarbach growled angrily at the changeling and stormed off. While he had long since become accustomed to Živný’s relentless teasing, he was in no mood to endure it. Scaarbach headed in the direction of his quarters with the vague idea to check everything was where he’d last put them.

⁂

Scaarbach, much to annoyance, ran into Nufer and Eudoria, two senior changelings in the Order. Eudoria was recently appointed captain of Berlin, and Nufer was the long standing dentist, barber, and surgeon. It was generally understood they were lovers, in so much as two changelings could share love between themselves, pairbonded in other words. Scaarbach regarded them both with dread. They had a something of a reputation and past experiences had proven it well earned.

“Scaarbach!” Eudoria beamed, “It’s good to see you!”

“Thank you ma’am,” Scaarbach replied cautiously, not believing her enthusiasm for a second.

“Was that you I heard playing in the common room?” Nufer asked drily, “You should practice more.”

“Yes sir, of course sir,” Scaarbach smiled awkwardly.

“How did you like working with Kozlóv?” Eudoria asked brightly.

“Kozlóv is an impressive killer, ma’am,” Scaarbach replied.

“I’ve heard he’s impressive in other ways,” Nufer chuckled, waggling his eyebrows knowingly.

Eudoria giggled, “A real _beast_ , I’ve heard.”

Scaarbach looked between the two changeling suspiciously, “I don’t understand.”

Eudoria leant forward, “Well, I heard that you let Kozlóv have his way with you for the _entire_ mission,” she mock whispered in a scandalised tone.

“What?” Scaarbach asked, his voice flat with horror.

Nufer leant forward, and waggled his brows viciously, “ _I_ heard you personally shat yourself when you sneakily tried to kill Velima all by yourself and bungled it up in your incompetence. She stabbed you in the leg with a poker, and sicced her dogs onto you, _that_ is why you are limping.”

“What?!” Scaarbach asked, seething with rage.

“No, it’s true,” Eudoria nodded, “That is why Kozlóv had to finish the kill that night himself.”

Nufer shrugged, “That’s what you get for betraying your superiors,” he tutted, wagging his finger as though to a troublesome but inoffensive child, “People will remember this. The _Dragon_ will remember this.”

“ _Where_ did you hear this story?” Scaarbach hissed, his eyes wide and flashing with bloodlust.

“From Kozlóv,” Eudoria replied, completely nonplussed.

Nufer nodded, “That’s right. He’s telling everyone about it.”

“Everyone?” Scaarbach glowered furiously.

Nufer and Eudoria laughed callously, “Why? You didn’t really _trust_ him, did you?” they chorused.

Scaarbach turned on his heel and stormed off. He had come to expect a certain degree of puerile nonsense from several members of the Order, Eudoria and Nufer especially, and on some levels he had learned to largely ignore it. But from Kozlóv, of _all_ changelings, it felt a thousand times worse than being stabbed all over again.

⁂

After a short search, Scaarbach found Kozlóv in the common room laughing and talking with Živný and several other changelings, his dogs resting in a heap by the open fire. By all, admittedly blurry, accounts it looked as though everyone was having a great time at _his_ expense.

Scaarbach marched up to Kozlóv and spat in his general direction, “Sasha! How dare you? How _dare_ you! You made a promise to me and here I find you stabbed me in the back! It’s bad enough that you told everyone how I warmed your bed! I only did that because you’re my superior and it was below freezing! But how is it that I heard from two other changelings lies about my actions? That I shat myself when I tried to kill Velima? What’s _wrong_ with you? That is the kind of slanderous lie an _egg_ would tell! Do you have any idea what you have done to my reputation?” At that point, he didn’t even care that people could overhear his words.

“Scaarbach, listen to me,” Kozlóv began, his face impassive and impossible to read.

“No! You listen to me!” Scaarbach yelled, “Everyone is laughing at _my_ expense! This is _your_ doing!” he clasped his hair in his hands, “I’m such a fool! Why did I ever think I could _trust_ you?”

“Scaarbach, _control_ yourself,” Kozlóv urged between gritted teeth.

“Is that supposed to be funny?” Scaarbach wished he could have strangled him on the spot, “You’ve been laughing at me the _entire_ time, haven’t you?”

Kozlóv closed his eyes for a moment and then took a deep breath, standing up, “Živný wipe that smile off your face! Kantakouzenos, Dominici, stop giggling, this isn’t funny! Sampsonia if you find someone sharing this rumour, tell them Kozlóv has killed before and he will kill again!” he growled deeply, “And Scaarbach, shut your mouth or I’ll put my boot in it for you.”

Scaarbach gulped, remembering Velima’s final moments, “Yes sir.”

“Come with me,” Kozlóv growled, “Now!” he yelled grabbing Scaarbach’s arm and leading him out of the common room.

Kozlóv barged through into the maze-like catacombs, stopping when he got to Eudoria and Nufer.

Eudoria giggled, “Taking your little pet for a walk, Kozlóv?”

“I’ve already tread in the doings of one of your other dogs, my friend,” Nufer looked Scaarbach up and down with a mock disgusted look.

Kozlóv growled like an animal, shoving passed them with ease. He opened the doors to presumably his own quarters and pulled Scaarbach inside, shutting the door behind him. It was identical to Scaarbach’s quarters, with barely enough room for the bed, chest and desk. They both sat on the bed.

Kozlóv exhaled sharply, “Ottokar, listen to me please,” he urged, the fire gone from his voice.

Scaarbach crossed his arms, scowling, “Why should I listen to another word _you_ have to say?”

“It wasn’t me!” Kozlóv insisted, “I promise!”

Scaarbach squeezed his arms around his chest tighter, “Don’t lie to me. Those details were _unmistakable_ , Sasha.”

“I don’t know how it happened,” Kozlóv frowned, “But I’d never say those things about you,” he thought for a moment, “Maybe someone was listening by Wölfin’s office.”

Scaarbach considered his words, “My reputation is ruined,” he sighed, “This is all people are going to remember about me for _centuries_.”

“No they won’t,” Kozlóv reassured him, “Do you want to know what I really told Wölfin?”

“What did you tell her?” Scaarbach asked, not sure if he’d believe him regardless.

“I told her I liked working with you, and that you were invaluable to me on the mission,” Kozlóv replied, “I said you are full of potential and I want to work with you again.”

“Why?” Scaarbach screwed up his face in disgust.

“That’s the truth,” Kozlóv explained, “I only told her the truth.”

“The whole truth?” Scaarbach asked, still doubtful.

“The bare truth,” Kozlóv nodded, “I painted you in the best possible light. Although I’m sorry, I had to bring up the poker.”

Scaarbach sighed, “Who would spread that rumour?”

“There are… past flames in the Order,” Kozlóv frowned, “I suspect someone was jealous. I swear I only spoke to _Wölfin_ about the events.”

Scaarbach slumped onto his back, “I miss St. Petersburg,” he moaned, “At least there were less changelings there.”

Kozlóv sighed and fiddled with his hands, “Is it true what you said earlier? About how you only warmed my bed because it was cold and I was your superior?”

“No,” Scaarbach admitted, “I was just angry at you when I said that.”

“Then why did you?” Kozlóv asked softly.

“Because you’re tall, gruff, and you were... nice... to me,” Scaarbach sighed, pretty positive they had discussed his motivations on many occasions, if only to relieve the monotony of the wilderness, “Human feelings don’t need much, they’re… physical.”

“What about changeling feelings?” Kozlóv wondered.

“Changeling feelings,” Scaarbach scoffed, “Changelings don’t have _nice_ feelings.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Petty, petty changelings, so petty. Not Sasha though, Sasha is Valid.


	12. The Dragon's Decree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mission is officially over but that means Scaarbach and the changeling assassin Kozlóv must face the consequences for their actions over the last several months. Scaarbach is terrified he’s going to be killed as punishment for nearly ruining the mission at the last minute but the Dragon and the Strix have other things in mind.
> 
> CW: Questionable Leadership Choices, Bullying, Secondhand Embarrassment, Somewhat Underwhelming Cliffhanger (Due to Reasons Brought Up in Notes.)

Kozlóv and Scaarbach made their way to Wölfin’s office. As they passed the other changelings who had gathered in the common room, they heard the stifled giggles and jabbed comments. Kozlóv held his head high, his gait matching the careful swagger of an apex predator in his domain. Scaarbach hobbled behind him, his cheeks burning with rage as he tried to force himself to ignore them, refusing to show weakness.

Wölfin was not alone in her office. A handsome woman of a certain age sat on her desk, her blonde hair piled on her head in the latest fashion, wearing a high waisted blue and white printed dress. Scaarbach gulped. It was Sidonia, the Grand Commandant.

“We asked for you, Kozlóv, not this little wretch,” Sidonia waved her hand at Scaarbach as though he were displeasing to her senses.

“I request that Scaarbach is allowed to remain present, Grand Commandant, ma’am,” Kozlóv replied stiffly.

“Why?” Wölfin asked, looking Scaarbach up and down in disgust.

“Transparency ma’am,” Kozlóv replied.

The two changelings exchanged looks, “Very well,” Sidonia sighed, “Scaarbach, stand in the back out of the way. Don’t say a word.”

Scaarbach opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it. He stepped back until he hit the wall, where he stood still, staring blankly ahead like an obedient soldier, chewing his lip as though to physically eat the words he felt compelled to say.

“Kozlóv. Impure Aleksandr Kozlóv, surfaced the year 1501, three years after my _dear_ Angelitha, isn’t that correct?” Sidonia began.

“Yes, that’s correct, Grand Commandant, ma’am,” Kozlóv agreed.

“Is there anything you would like to say before I begin?” Sidonia asked graciously.

“Well, yes there is, Grand Commandant, ma’am,” Kozlóv replied earnestly, “I want it to go on record that I was not the one responsible for spreading _vicious_ rumours about Scaarbach’s actions during the mission. I never breathed a word about what he did beyond this room, the story spreading through the Order is a slanderous lie. I recommend whomever is responsible for starting and spreading this rumour to be punished. It is childish and immature, and reflects poorly on the Order as a whole, ma’am.”

“You’re quite… _honourable_ , aren’t you Sasha?” Wölfin chuckled.

“Honour is a tool to get the job done, ma’am,” Kozlóv replied stiffly.

The two changelings shared a look, “Very good Aleksandr, I will take your recommendation under _consideration_ , along with your other regarding… spectacles, if I remember correctly,” Sidonia nodded, “Allow me to continue. You, Aleksandr, are the one responsible for penning this report, is that correct?” Sidonia waved a piece of paper in front of him.

“Yes, Grand Commandant, ma’am,” Kozlóv repeated.

“It’s a very _interesting_ read,” Sidonia admitted, “You’re not a skilled author but your attention to detail is appreciated.”

“I try, Grand Commandant, ma’am,” Kozlóv replied.

“So you are able to confirm that you, Aleksandr, are responsible for the assassination of Velima, impure Velica Marica Milescu, surfaced the year 1454, appointed captain of the Janus Order’s St. Petersburg base of operations?” Sidonia asked, her voice smooth and cold.

“Yes, Grand Commandant, ma’am,” Kozlóv agreed, “Her time of death was January, 28 of this year, 1799, at approximately a quarter to three in the morning, ma’am.”

“You’re a credit to the Order, Kozlóv,” Sidonia concluded.

“Thank you, Grand Commandant, ma’am,” Kozlóv replied without the faintest hint of pride in his voice.

“You must be wondering what will happen to St. Petersburg, am I correct?” Sidonia asked.

“I assume Alžbeta will be made captain, Grand Commandant, ma’am,” Kozlóv admitted, “She has already been acting as captain in my absence, and her human husband owns the rights to the pawn shop. It would be _my_ recommendation as it would result in the smoothest transition, ma’am.”

“That’s a very sage recommendation, Aleksandr,” Sidonia nodded, “But I’m afraid in the long term this would be prove to be unwise. Alžbeta is a worthy spy, but she currently lacks the wisdom required of someone in the position of captain”

“What Sidonia is saying, my dear Sasha,” Wölfin explained, “Is that we discussed this at great length and come to the conclusion that _you_ are the next captain of St. Petersburg.”

“I will serve the Order in anyway you ask, Grand Commandant, ma’am,” Kozlóv replied stiffly.

“Very good, Aleksandr,” Sidonia smiled, waving her hand elegantly, “You are dismissed for now, but expect to hear from me again as you will need further instructions before assuming your new post. Oh and, just a little tip. _Never_ bring your filthy animals into the catacombs again, Kozlóv. I don’t care that they’re evidence. The journal was sufficant enough.”

Kozlóv bowed politely, “Yes of course, Grand Commandant, ma’am,” he turned to leave the room, pausing a moment to look at Scaarbach who was praying for the walls to swallow him up whole, and then left, closing the door behind him.

As the door closed Sidonia and Wölfin turned their attention to Scaarbach like cats who had just spotted a fat, juicy mouse, “Step forward,” Sidonia commanded, her voice devoid of the honey she had used with Kozlóv, “You are Scaarbach, impure Ottokar Bach, surfaced the year 1651.”

Scaarbach stood where he was, finding his legs betrayed him in his moment of need.

“Are you okay, impure?” Wölfin asked in mock concern, “You look as though you just shat yourself again,” she laughed cruelly.

Scaarbach stepped forward, fuelled by furious indignation, “I’ll have you know that rumour was a slanderous lie and not a word of it was true!” he yelled, “I have never once soiled myself on a mission and I only warmed Sasha’s bed because it was cold and he was my superior! I made some mistakes but I won’t stand here and be mocked by two sour faced old _hags_ who think they’re less impure than everyone else just because they’ve been here longer than most!” his eyes widened as his brain heard the words his heart had spouted.

“You will _regret_ those words, impure,” Wölfin spat, her eyes glowing as brightly as Sidonia’s from the insult.

Sidonia stepped forward so she stood perhaps too closely, “Kozlóv speaks so highly of you, impure. He told me the story of the white rabbit,” she placed a cool, soft hand on his cheek, “You may be more than half blind, but surely even _you_ can see he is more than a little soft for you?”

Scaarbach gulped, “It hadn’t escaped my attention, Grand Commandant, ma’am.”

“Please, for the remainder of this meeting—” Sidonia’s voice turned honey sweet, “— you are to exclusively refer to Angelitha and myself as… _hag_ ,” her tone soured to disgust as she got to _that_ word.

Scaarbach stared at her, his jaw clamped shut, “Whatever you say—” he closed his eyes, his hands shaking, “— hag,” he whimpered.

“Good boy,” Sidonia cooed icily, “You set out to seduce him, didn’t you? You wanted him soft so he’d be easier to manipulate.”

Scaarbach gulped, that was exactly how it started, although it hadn’t lasted that way for long, and it certainly hadn’t ended that way, “That was the plan—” he closed his eyes again, unable to bear seeing her face as he said the word, “— hag.”

“I won’t deny it’s a plan that works,” Sidonia admitted, “My greatest gift to the Order was the ability to make humans fall to their knees and beg for my favour,” she smiled proudly, “After that they’d all listen to my whispers. I toppled kingdoms with my tongue.”

“Except you are not Sidonia, _impure_ ,” Wölfin snarled, “You have neither her grace, beauty, or skill, and your whispers are naught but selfish and pathetic.”

Scaarbach pouted churlishly. He had not, as far as he knew, intentionally ‘whispered’ anything at all.

“I read your report,” Sidonia continued, “You painted yourself repentant, but that is not the impure we see cowering in front of us.”

“I gave you a second chance,” Wölfin added, “A second chance to prove you had learned your lesson, that you could accept your superior’s ultimate authority over you no matter the cost,” she paused, adjusting an errant lock of Sidonia’s hair, “And you failed.”

Scaarbach looked at the two changelings and despaired, by ordering him to call them hag instead of their due titles he felt entirely disinclined to defend himself. He felt trapped, no, he was trapped. But still he wanted to know what the test had been, he racked his brain for anything that happened between requesting a second chance and being told that he had failed. He gasped, realising his error, “The rumour… it was _you_! It was a test! I was a… I mean I am a…,” he turned to Wölfin, almost pleading to be wrong, “Fuck.”

“You were given the opportunity to respond to a personal attack with the humility and tact expected of someone in your position,” Sidonia sighed, “And we could not be more disappointed.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—” Scaarbach closed his eyes, wincing, “— hags.”

“It’s not just that you made a scene in the common room. It’s not _just_ that you insulted us to our faces,” Sidonia shook her head, “But you convinced your superior to defend you, like a _coward_ rather than facing us alone yourself.”

“You call yourself a _changeling_ ,” Wölfin spat, “A child fresh from the Darklands would never _dream_ to stoop so low.”

Scaarbach bowed his head ashamed, he was not actually guilty of the crime they had ascribed to him but there was no point arguing. He closed his eyes, his heart pounding in his chest, angry and hurt.

Sidonia tucked a finger under his chin and lifted it up tenderly as though to console a child, “Do not despair, Scaarbach, this is a chance for a new beginning,” her hands were softer than her heart had ever been. 

“She means you’re being reassigned,” Wölfin explained.

“Yes, that’s right,” Sidonia smiled, using the same sweet voice she had used on Kozlóv earlier, “Instead of being a travelling musician, transporting our mail, you will become a tailor and messengers will come to you.”

Scaarbach opened his eyes, utterly confused, “But I don’t know how to sew or even cut cloth or anything—” he winced, “— hag.”

Sidonia smiled at him sweetly, “You will be given a period of three to five years, or however long it takes to learn how to be the best damn tailor on the continent. You are to study in London, under a particularly talented changeling who is already a tailor. Don’t worry about being turned away, Gormlaith owes me a favour after I helped her with her most troublesome operative.”

“And if I find out your hands have been down his, or anyone’s breeches, or up anyone’s petticoats, I’ll have your filthy hands cut clean off,” Wölfin growled, in any other circumstance he would have assumed she was exaggerating, but there was a barbed trollishness in her tone that implied she genuinely meant the threat.

Scaarbach instinctively hid his hands behind his back, “But I can’t speak English—” he winced again, “— hags.”

Wölfin booped his nose playfully, “Well you better learn fast then!”

Scaarbach grimaced, deciding it wasn’t worth his words.

“Very good,” Sidonia nodded, “Of course, I agree with Angelitha regarding your hands, although I don’t know if she appreciates the irony of her words. Regardless, you are under orders to keep yourself to yourself,” she sighed, “I understand that you are cursed with human urges, and normally I am inclined to look the other way, but in your case it’s obvious your motivations went beyond animalistic satisfaction and I simply do not trust you to behave yourself,” she turned to share a look with Wölfin for a second, and then back again, “Sampsonia can help with the English. For his sake, as well as yours, avoid speaking with Kozlóv. He has a lot to learn about being captain, at _best_ you’ll only waste his time. You won’t be needed again today.”

Scaarbach nodded obediently, “Yes… hag, I completely understand.”

“You’re dismissed, Scaarbach,” Sidonia waved her hand elegantly in the direction of the door.

Scaarbach bowed deeply and grovelled his way to the exit.

“Oh, and Scaarbach?” Sidonia sung out after him, “Never—” she snapped, “— under any circumstance—” she paused, punctuating her sharp words like daggers, “— refer to myself or any other woman as ‘hag,’ do you understand?”

“Yes, Grand Commandant, ma’am!” Scaarbach yelped, “I’m so sorry, it just slipped out, and I promise I will never _ever_ use the word again under any circumstances, ma’am!”

“Very good,” Sidonia beamed.

Scaarbach left the room and closed the door behind him. He jumped when he looked up and saw Kozlóv leaning on the wall next to the door.

“What are you doing, sir?” Scaarbach asked, “Have you been listening the entire time?”

Kozlóv shrugged, “I needed to make sure no one eavesdropped. I caught only a third of what you said.” 

Scaarbach grunted, “Fine,” he continued passed the changeling, remembering Sidonia’s words.

The other changelings tittered as Scaarbach skulked passed, his anger rising with every uneven step. He didn’t stop as he got to the common room, completely uninterested in even the most hollow of conversations and stormed his way into his quarters. He shut the door behind him and flopped on the bed. Scaarbach buried his face into the pillow and screamed. He screamed until his breath ran out and voice grew hoarse. He screamed until he didn’t care anymore, turning over to face the low ceiling, his heart as empty as his stomach.

⁂

Scaarbach awoke, and for a moment, was pleasantly surprised to find himself in his quarters, but as the memories of his horrible afternoon filtered in, one by one, he groaned with regret. He turned his attention to the knocking that had awoken him.

“Scaarbach, it’s me,” Kozlóv explained, continuing to knock.

“Go away!” Scaarbach growled. 

“I didn’t see you at supper,” Kozlóv continued, ignoring the very clear command.

“I don’t care!” Scaarbach replied, not bothering to move from his bed.

“It’s not much but I brought you bread and beer,” Kozlóv continued.

Scaarbach’s stomach grumbled and he conceded in a huff, opening the door, “Fine,” he snatched the food and slammed the door shut.

Kozlóv audibly shuffled on the other side of the door, “I’m sorry about what happened. I wish things worked out differently.”

Scaarbach rolled his eyes, gnawing on the bread which was admittedly delicious, “Liar,” he scoffed, “Everything worked out perfectly for you, didn’t it, _captain_?”

“That’s not true!” Kozlóv insisted earnestly.

“Leave me alone,” Scaarbach hissed angrily, “It’s over! St. Petersburg was the best we’re ever going to get. I never want to see you again, do you understand?”

There was a moment’s pause and Kozlóv took a deep breath as though to give an impressive speech, but it deflated in a sigh. Eventually he walked away, giving Scaarbach what he wanted. Scaarbach finished the bread and beer, and then curled up on his bed. 

He hated everyone. He hated the Dragon and Wölfin, Nufer and Eudoria, their cruel games had cut him deeper than he’d ever let them know. He hated the other changelings with their petty mockeries. He hated himself and his own regretful naïveté that he had put him in the situation in the first place. But worst of all, words could not describe the sheer hatred he felt for Kozlóv, the soul-destroying envy, the gut aching bitterness. He couldn’t wait for the changeling to return to St. Petersburg so Scaarbach could forget about him for good and endure his punishment in peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate to end you on a low note, but this is the end of part one. I’m taking a break in June and *fingers crossed* should be back with part two in the beginning of July with more petty changeling squabbles and omg there was only one bed situations. 
> 
> In the meantime if you would like a _complete_ change of pace and tone, [Uhl fic is completed, fluffy and unashamed.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16629848) Also for those discerning readers, you might just find some hints in that fic that alludes to future events of this fic. They are set in the same au after all. ;)


	13. Yet Another Roadtrip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scaarbach is forced out onto the road once again, this time headed for London. Joined by his last choice of companions, their first stop is Hamburg, but something happens one night that might ensure Scaarbach’s latest mission fails before it even starts.
> 
> CW: Bullying, Violence, Gore, Death, Seasickness

Scaarbach was not given long to wallow in his misery but, with the help of the other changelings in the catacombs of the Berlin headquarters, it had passed like a war-torn century. Živný was the worst offender. The two were not so far apart in age, which meant their rivalry stretched back into the Darklands. Since their youths Živný had considered teasing Scaarbach his second most favourite pastime, but after he’d been handed such ripe fodder from Wölfin, the man had done everything in his power to outdo himself.

For the week Kozlóv had remained in residence, Živný had slid ‘love’ letters signed ‘Sasha’ under Scaarbach’s door specifically crafted to get under his skin. With every word they had become more absurd and repulsive until Scaarbach had no choice but to burned them all to rid the words from his eyes. To make matters worse, every time Scaarbach went to leave his quarters, he’d find that someone had left yet another chamber pot in front of his door.

Whenever he passed a group of people, there would be stifled giggled and hush whispers. During meal times, someone would always find a way to sprinkle far too much salt on his food, and on several occasions, drop a piece of bread or cabbage into his beer. Despite what Sidonia had said earlier, Simpsonia was completely unwilling to teach him a single word of English. Scaarbach had never been popular in the Order, but thanks to his own pride, and thanks more to the Wölfin’s spite, his name was on everyone’s lips. The esteemed unfavourite of the hour. He spent much of his days in his quarters, his anger and resentment bleeding into his very bones.

It was mid-morning, or at least, that was what Scaarbach assumed. He still lay in bed, not particularly interested in doing anything at all, merely thankful of his single bed quarters. There was something peaceful, soothing, about the solitude, and as the rest of the headquarters was crawling with spiteful, vindictive changelings, the solitude meant more to him than respite alone, it was a necessary means to survival.

“Scaarbach, open this door!” Eudoria demanded on the other side of his quarters, “Now!”

Scaarbach sighed and dragged himself off his bed, fumbling at the key and unlocked the door, “Right away ma’am,” he replied, opening the door.

Eudoria looked him up and down and sighed, “And put some breeches on, for the Lady’s sake!”

“Very well ma’am,” Scaarbach restrained himself from making a smart comment and pulled his breeches on silently.

“I’ve come to inform you that money has been arranged for your trip to London,” Eudoria continued stiffly, “In the latest correspondence with the Cockatrice, she agreed to Sidonia’s request and expects to see you by the end of the month.”

Scaarbach gulped, “Thank you ma’am,” he ran a hand through his hair nervously, “That’s… pretty soon, isn’t it?”

“I suggest you pack your things immediately,” Eudoria replied, “Someone will be down to speak with you in more detail.”

“Understood ma’am,” Scaarbach nodded slowly, already screaming internally.

⁂

Scaarbach went through his meagre belongings. As a travelling musician he had become accustomed to having to leave at a moment’s notice, and this showed in his things. It had taken him less than an hour to get his trunk packed with essentials, and he sat at his desk agonising over which books to take. Whichever ones he left behind would likely be appropriated the moment he left Berlin and he had no chance of ever getting them back. There was the jingling of keys and Scaarbach stood up in anticipation. He had locked his quarters from the inside and only the Dragon and the Strix had the other two copies. Scaarbach braced himself for the crude and harsh presence of Wölfin.

The door opened and Sidonia stepped in, “Take a seat, I need to have a word with you.”

Scaarbach sat on the edge of his bed, his heart racing as he tried to remain calm, “This is about London, isn’t it, Grand Commandant, ma’am?”

“Don’t be silly, impure,” Sidonia scoffed, “Why else would I come?” she sat across from him on his rickety desk chair, resting her gloved hands neatly on her lap, “As I’m sure you’ve already been told, the arrangements have been put in place. You have a week to get to Hamburg where you will travel via the North Sea to Calais, and from there head to London. Another operative will meet you at port and escort you to the headquarters. Once you are there, I expect monthly reports of your retraining to be addressed _me_ specifically. Do I make myself clear, impure?”

“Yes absolutely, Grand Commandant, ma’am,” Scaarbach replied automatically.

“While I’m sure you’re unlikely to run, I have assigned Živný to escort you until Hamburg,” Sidonia continued, seemingly unaware of his actions the past month, “If we lose track of you, you _will_ be hunted down and dragged back to Berlin.”

Scaarbach gulped, “I understand, Grand Commandant, ma’am.”

“How is your leg?” Sidonia asked coldly.

“Uh…,” Scaarbach hesitated, “It’s fine, Grand Commandant, ma’am.”

“When you first arrived at Berlin you were limping, is this still the case?” Sidonia asked in a not at all motherly tone.

“Not really, Grand Commandant, ma’am,” Scaarbach replied, “Why do you ask?”

Sidonia waggled her blurry fingers as though she were warming up to play an instrument, “If it were going to be a problem, I was going to heal you with my magic.”

Scaarbach frowned, “Why bother Grand Commandant, ma’am?”

“I merely refuse to send… faulty equipment out onto the field,” Sidonia replied carefully.

⁂

In a numb haze, Scaarbach spent the night staring at his low, damp ceiling, bathing in the light of the minuscule shard of living stone embedded into his walls. On one hand, he was grateful to be given a chance to escape the suffocating mockery of the Berlin Headquarters. But on the other, he was acutely aware he had no hope escaping the bonds of the Order, no matter where he went, or what company he kept. The Order was inescapable. Ruthless. His stone was still strong, of that he was sure, but he felt judgement towards the Order, a sense that if _he_ were in charge they would waste far less energy on meaningless, childish games. But of course, it was that type of thinking that had gotten him into his situation in the first place. It needed to be snuffed out.

As the hours crept passed like a spectre unseen, Scaarbach tried to resolve his inner strength in preparation for the London Headquarters. He had no idea what to expect, although he had heard that the north-western branch of the Janus Order were more… extreme than he was used to, that they clung to human ways more thoroughly than the changelings he had known. Scaarbach had encountered a few operatives from that branch of the Order, mostly lowly messengers such as himself, but there had been little in the way camaraderie between them. They had been merely strangers, devoted to the mission and the Order and nothing more.

That morning, with great solemnity, he packed his things on the carriage granted to him with Živný, who seemed to resent his assignment so deeply that he refused to look Scaarbach in the eyes, or even acknowledge his presence beyond surly grunts. In order to get to Hamburg in time to arrive at London on the correct date, they couldn’t dawdle, but they were at least granted the luxury of not working their mare to the death. Scaarbach watched the haze of autumnal flash by in a thoughtful silence as they left the confines of the city, his internal screaming a mystery to all but himself.

⁂

Scaarbach sat on the carriage next to Živný, his arms crossed furiously as it rocked gently on the road. Živný hadn’t wanted to go to Hamburg, especially not with Scaarbach, and it was blatantly obvious how deeply resented being forced to act as chauffeur. He had retreated into himself, barely wanting to speak, glowering the entire time like Kozlóv in one of his moods.

“I didn’t ask for your company,” Scaarbach said.

“I know,” Živný replied icily.

“I know you hate me,” Scaarbach continued, testing the waters.

“Everyone hates you,” Živný kept his eyes on the road.

Scaarbach looked up at the sky wearily, “I know,” he sighed.

“But no hates you more than me,” Živný replied, his voice almost soft in its hesitation.

His thoughts turned to earlier times, a time when Živný had once counted him as a friend, “You’re wrong,” Scaarbach said.

“I think…,” Živný voice trailed off, “I think I am being punished.”

Scaarbach turned to look at him, “What for?”

Živný bristled, “None of your business.”

Scaarbach decided to let it go, not wanting to goad his escort into making the trip worse than it already was. Instead he kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead, pretending to watch out for any highwaymen foolish enough to try and attack the two changelings in daylight. He saw nothing.

⁂

They’d not been given much money to spare, so Scaarbach and Živný had chosen to sleep in the carriage, pretending the other wasn’t there as they took turns acting as look out. As insufferable as Živný was, he at least had not fallen into the habit of snoring. They had parked by the side of the road, tying their horse up onto a nearby tree with her bag of feed. Scaarbach sat inside the carriage, sheltering from the rain that threatened to turn their road to bog. It was just his luck that it had decided to rain for a large part of their journey. Sounds of chuckling mingled with the gentle patter of rain.

“What’s so funny?” Scaarbach asked.

“I just realised,” Živný began, “Do you remember Magno?”

“That was years ago,” Scaarbach tried to huddle further into his corner.

“You were… so cold after it happened,” Živný continued, “He taught us everything and you didn’t even care.”

“He lost his stone,” Scaarbach said, “It’s what _has_ to happen.”

Živný sighed, “I know… I’m not saying he should’ve been spared,” he paused, “But you didn’t even _mourn_ him, and then you leap into bed with his _executioner_? You really don’t care about anyone other than yourself.”

Scaarbach frowned at his colleague, “What are you talking about? Magno lost his stone. He was a traitor.”

“There was a point when he _had_ it, Ottokar!” Živný exclaimed, the hurt undeniable in his voice.

“Sweet Mistress of Shadows,” Scaarbach breathed, “Josef, you had _human_ feelings for him, didn’t you?”

A pair of eyes lit up angrily in the darkness, “Shut up,” Živný growled.

“You could have told me earlier,” Scaarbach had to stop himself from laughing.

“I didn’t have human feelings,” Živný insisted.

“Now I know why you sent those ridiculous letters,” Scaarbach said, mostly to himself.

“Bastard,” Živný spat.

There was a particularly wet sounding squelch, the breaking of twigs, and the panicked neigh of their mare. Scaarbach pawed at the dagger he had hidden for emergencies, fumbling for the handle in the darkness. He hopped out of the carriage, splashing mud and rain water all up his lower half, looking for the cause of the disturbance. He attempted to circle the carriage but found himself being jumped from above and behind, a gloved hand over his mouth and something that felt upsettingly like a gun pressed into his back.

“Shifge,” Scaarbach muttered, gagging on the glove.

One of the humans chuckled, “Lookee here,” the man kicked the side of the carriage, “Only a fool’d leave a piece like this out on the road in the night where any ol’ sonovabitch could grab it.”

Another of the highwaymen went through Scaarbach’s pockets, leaving no garment or crevice uncheck, he pulled out a vial of something that would kill the man if he tasted but a drop, “What’s this? Perfume?” he laughed, opening it up, “Smells sweet, sickly,” he grunted, “Like a whore trying to hide her rank pustuled c——”

“Shut up,” the first human groaned, “You’re disgusting, look for coins.”

“Jackpot!” yelled another man his head buried in the carriage, there was the soft metallic chinking of coins in the purse he had hidden above the window, “Oi! Dumbfuck! What’re doin’ travellin’ alone at night like an amazon’s lost tit?”

Scaarbach blinked, emotionally unprepared for the imagery the highway man evoked, “Amgon’s hw?” he asked into the glove hand.

There was the gentle splosh of a foot hitting the muddy road in the near distance, the subtle sound of a rapier being drawn in the shadows, the familiar mocking laughter of Živný in his element.

“Huh?” one of the highwaymen wondered.

“Who’s there?” asked the human who was probably what sorry excuse they had as a leader.

The man behind Scaarbach loosened his grip and took a step back, “I don’t like this,” he muttered.

Seizing the moment, Scaarbach lunged forward and wrenched the vial of poison from the wretched human’s hands, spraying its contents in an arch of perfumed death. He flinched back as the man writhed about in the mud, screaming incoherently and burbling at the mouth. Everyone stood silent, watching him until he stopped thrashing.

“What did’ya do?” yelled another man, charging at Scaarbach and wrestling him to the ground, “What the _fuck_ d’ya do?” he roared into Scaarbach face.

Scaarbach went to push the man off but he made a stomach churning glugging noise and sprayed the changeling’s face with blood.

“It went right in, didn’t it?” Živný beamed, utterly delighted with his blade, “Which one of you ‘nice fellows’ wants to go next?”

“It’s a monster!” one of the men screamed in horror.

“There’s no light source, you fools!” Živný growled, his voice increasingly gravelly and annoyed.

“Those eyes!” another of the men hissed.

“It must be a trick of the light,” Živný replied, swooshing his blade in the air a couple times.

“G - g - get away!” one of the men begged, falling backwards over himself as he tried to edge away.

“Murder is _technically_ illegal,” Živný mused as he stepped closer to the gang of thieves, “But _that_ law only applies to humans,” Živný dove at the humans, slashing with his rapier and brutally silencing them with ease. They fell to the ground with a thump.

“You didn’t have to kill them,” Scaarbach chided, still trying to push off the corpse, “We’re supposed to be staying out of trouble.”

There was a flash of light as Živný switched back to his human form, “You killed first,” he muttered, he used his foot to kick off the body, “I was just doing _your_ dirty work,” he said, leaning forward and grabbing Scaarbach by the hand.

Scaarbach scowled and yanked Živný down into the mud with him, “It was an accident.”

Živný grabbed a handful of mud and threw it at his face, “That was no accident,” he growled angrily, “My kills were quick, your friend died a horrible _indescribable_ death. The pain was so bad he _gouged out his own eyes_.”

“Stop exaggerating,” Scaarbach sniffed, wiping the mud from his cheek with an already muddy hand, “Curse this rain!” he hissed through gritted teeth.

“It’s just water,” Živný grunted, “I know you’re a dishonourable coward, so I’ll dispose of the bodies.”

Scaarbach pulled himself up onto his feet, “I’m not a coward,” he sulked.

“You are so,” Živný pouted, “Don’t you remember that time in Venice? There was that witch hunter who was _so_ convinced you were up to something occult that he followed halfway across the continent? When he finally caught up to us he threw tha—”

“Yes - yes, we all remember what happened in Venice,” Scaarbach muttered, shooing away the memory with his hand.

“And that’s not even _touching_ on what you did during that bar fight three years ago in Vienna,” Živný chuckled.

“I was _extremely_ drunk okay?” Scaarbach puffed his chest up defensively despite the darkness and rain, “And that man pulled a hunting knife on me out of nowhere!”

“Everyone was watching, it was hilarious,” there was a flash of light as Živný changed back into his trollish form, “Even humans know you’re pathetic,” he added, his voice more gravelly in tone.

The sounds of bones crunching filled the air, dampened by the rain, “Eugh Živný, what are you doing?” Scaarbach asked with a disgusted look on his muddied face.

Bones crunched for a few more moments, “Calm down, I’m just destroying their faces. I know they’re just highwaymen but you can’t be too careful.”

⁂

The rain didn’t leave off for the majority of their journey on the road to Hamburg. After much difficulty, Scaarbach had managed to get most of the mud off his clothes, but the stains would last forever. For awhile it seemed Živný had almost forgiven Scaarbach, or at least sweetened his vitriol, but then Scaarbach had made an off-colour joke about Magno which had ruined everything. 

They had arrived in Hamburg late at night, pushing through the last stretch to make it in time. It would have been strange for them to have huddled up in their carriage in the city, so they paid for a night’s stay in the cheapest, most convenient boarding house they could find. It was too late for food, and even if it wasn’t, the boarding house didn’t serve it. Scaarbach and Živný stumbled into a crowded room, the beds pressed closely together to maximised on paying customers. It was the kind of place people came to when they had nowhere else to go.

Scaarbach lay in the bed, squashed up next to Živný and ignoring the suffocating number of humans that threatened to steal their air and their money if they dared close their eyes. There was something about the numbers, the way they huddled together for warmth while trusting no one, the unforgiving cold darkness… it was very much like being back in the Darklands all over again. At least the smell was different, far more human and far less… impure.

“This was a bad idea,” Scaarbach whispered, mostly to himself.

“It was _your_ idea,” Živný groaned drowsily.

“No it wasn’t!” Scaarbach hissed, “I seem to remember you suggesting a boarding house!”

“You suggested _this_ particular establishment, Ottokar,” Živný hissed back.

“Only because you couldn’t decide between this one and the one that was _clearly_ a brothel,” Scaarbach sighed.

The two fell silent, neither sleeping, but neither wanting to talk. Scaarbach lay in the bed, trying not to think of bed bugs or the hygiene of the bed’s previous occupants. Memories of being young and afraid flooded to the surface and he desperately wanted to cling to something, anything, that would keep his mind off things.

“Ottokar?” Živný asked, after what seemed like an eternity had passed.

“Yes Josef?” Scaarbach replied.

“If you tell _anyone_ about Lodovico, I _will_ kill you,” Živný muttered viciously.

Scaarbach nestled in, nice and close, “No… I think that would ruin the fun,” he whispered into the changeling’s ear, letting the unspoken threat hang in the air.

⁂

The following morning they fled the boarding house as quickly as possible, both not having slept a wink, and made their way to the docks. The docks were bright and lively, despite the soft, near inconsequential drizzle. Fisherman hauled in their catch from their ships, fishmongers selling their wares. Sailors came and went, most too busy to appreciate the company of the women who kept their lodgings close to the water. Navy-men marched up and down the docks, dressed in their fancy uniforms, splashes of colour in the otherwise grey and brown day.

Scaarbach argued and bartered with many a ship’s captain, looking for cheap and safe travel to London. It took him hours to find someone going to the right place at the right time, _and_ for the right price, but eventually he found it. The ship wasn’t typically a passenger vessel, but the captain made a little money on the side renting out the unused spaces below deck to folks such as Scaarbach on short journeys. In a rare moment of consideration, Živný even helped Scaarbach haul his trunk into the ship. They stood below deck in relative darkness, a couple young men already having made themselves comfortable in their cramped quarters.

“I suppose this is goodbye then,” Scaarbach said awkwardly.

Živný grunted, “I give you two months before you fuck up again and they send you back in _double_ disgrace.”

Scaarbach glared back at him, “At least it’d be two months without _you_ , Živný,” he muttered bitterly.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be able to survive without me,” Živný grinned wolfishly.

Scaarbach rolled his eyes, “Without you I’ll flourish.”

Živný burst into uproarious laughter, “You? Flourish? You’re never going to flourish a day in your life, you’re like a pathetic bit of moss that dies in the sun.”

“I’m nearly 150, Živný,” Scaarbach replied simply.

“One and half centuries of shitting yourself and blundering missions,” Živný laughed, “An _egg_ could do more than you.”

“Leave!” Scaarbach yelled, “You’ve done your job, now go away,” he mutter, “Why don’t you go eat an oyster or something?”

Živný looked him up and down, “You know what? Fine! I don’t have to stand around looking at that pathetic excuse you call a face. I hope there’s a storm and you drown with the rats,” he turned on his heels and stormed up out of the decks.

Scaarbach sat down in a huff, folding his arms and sulking. The ship wasn’t due to depart for another hour, and he no choice but to wait in silence fuming over each one of Živný’s spiteful words and actions. 

⁂

Živný’s last words seemed to have been a curse, as a storm did in fact come and threatened to turn over the ship. Or at least, that had been what it felt like to Scaarbach as he curled up below decks with his head sorrowfully in a bucket as his stomach churned as deeply as the waters below.

Changelings, groomed to be the perfect spies, had been granted the constitution of gods, and were largely immune to human diseases. This had been a blessing during the darker moments of European history where the majority of the changeling population could have been wiped out by the plague as easily as it had decimated the humans. As worthless as the impure were as people, the process was entirely too difficult to want to waste perfectly good spies by losing them to something as petty as disease or basic poisons.

The downside of this was that Scaarbach was entirely unaccustomed to hurling his guts out for any reason and it distressed him more than any other torture he had known. To make matters worse, Scaarbach wasn’t the only one. Each time he thought he had seen the worst of it, his neighbour would lose himself and Scaarbach would follow suit like clockwork. The stale air stank of bile and other horrendous bodily fluids. Despite having eaten only a small amount of bread that day, the mere idea of food was as distant and far-fetched as becoming a miniature purple elephant in his sleep.

Time passed with the loving and gentle embrace of the torment of Tantalus, the hope of docking fading with every second that refused to pass. He sent his earnest most prayers to the Glorious Lady, hoping she could grant him the strength to endure. He felt nothing of course, she would probably laugh at what he called torture and would never in million years consider granting someone as pathetic as he, yet still he prayed, begged, anything to make the misery go away. At some point the ship stopped to unload, and for a moment he had thought it was London, but as the crew explained, it had merely been Calais. He spent the day on the deck, trying to get some fresh air, but eventually retreated back down below decks as the gentle rocking was far too much for him after such a hideous voyage.

Eventually the ship docked again, the number of days of the complete journey had been a complete mystery to Scaarbach who felt as though it had to have been eighty. The captain assured him that it was in fact the day he was due to arrive, and laughed over how fiercely the sea disagreed with him. His first day in London was every bit as Scaarbach was expecting. It was wet and dreary. The cloud hung overhead so thickly any troll could walk about as though it were already dusk, and the sun was but a cryptid in the miserable over-sea of grey.

He dragged his trunk off the ship and realised, perhaps far too late, that in the sea of humans he had little chance of spotting a changeling in their number. Without English, he had no way of communicating with most of the inhabitants of the crowds, and he certainly couldn’t count on his eyesight to point him in the right direction. His only chance was to find somewhere relatively obvious to hide from the rain and hope the London operative would be the one to find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I am back! I hope you had a good month despite... well, everything being utterly shit in every possible way. 
> 
> Personally I was sick pretty much all of my break, which is honestly something that always happens. I got the flu vax and due to being immunocompromised ended up getting a cold that _endured._ To top all this one of my siamese got very sick and then finally had to be put to sleep two days before my birthday, and I was highly stressed over having to be the person to deal with all of this while also being sick myself, and it was just bad. 
> 
> Despite this I was busy writing and editing, and while I'm a _little_ behind I think I ended up on top of everything despite... well, everything. Not including this chapter, I have around 16 before I run out of content again, so hopefully I'll be able to stay ahead and you won't notice. XD


	14. The Dapper Tailor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a particularly unfortunate voyage, Scaarbach finds himself in the infamously dreary London at long last. Armed with his non-existent English skills, no map, and terrible eyesight, he must find his way to the local headquarters of the Janus Order. For a human this might seem like an impossible task but a changeling will always find a way.
> 
> CW: Adult Themes, Sexual References

The rain fell in a constant wet haze as Scaarbach waited in what little shelter he could scrounge for himself. People bustled past as though he were invisible, speaking English in thick, impenetrable accents. It had been hours since he had arrived in the London port, and he could see no sign of any members of the Order coming to collect him. It was not as though other changelings were _that_ difficult to spot, there was something about the eyes that left things unambiguous to even the youngest of the Order. Scaarbach wondered if it were test, if his instructions had been a lie, and that was really supposed to be able to sniff out the headquarters with nothing but his wits alone.

The rain had soaked through his thick woollen coat and probably through his trunk as well. The sun, or what little of it had shone through the dark grey clouds was beginning to dim and he faced his first night in London on the street if he couldn’t find a tavern that catered to people who spoke one of his stronger languages. He sniffed bitterly and took out his handkerchief, wiping it across his face to soak up some of the rainwater.

A young voice asked him a question, their body obscured in the dark shadows of the gloom. They added to it, continuing with their impenetrably English demands.

Scaarbach frowned, “Forgive me, I don’t speak English,” he said in German.

“Oh dear,” the mysterious youth replied, “Are you not a son of the Lady?”

Scaarbach looked up, his eyes aflame, “A son and servant true.”

A white gloved hand stretched out from the shadows, and a young man, no older than fifteen smiled down upon him, “You’re the one who calls yourself Scaarbach, is this not true? I’ve been sent to collect you, good sir.”

Scaarbach took the hand and shook it roughly, “The Order sent a scrawny chicken to collect me? A chicken!”

The youth flinched, “There is a carriage waiting. Hurry yourself, it will take some time to get to our destination.”

Scaarbach wrenched up his trunk, “Where have you been, I’ve been waiting for hours!”

The young changeling bowed stiffly, “A miscommunication I’m afraid, good sir. Terribly sorry to have vexed you so. It won’t happen again, I _assure_ you.”

They walked through the increasingly shady crowds, and finally approached a fine looking carriage. It was aggressively English, but ostentatious enough that it warranted a particularly strapping footman who looked as though he’d be more comfortable in a boxing ring than behind a horse. He threw the trunk onto the roof of the carriage and helped Scaarbach and the youth into their seats, sheltered at last from the famous English rains. As the carriage headed off the youth brushed himself down fussily and sniffed haughtily like a lord.

“The name’s Mr. Bodkin,” Bodkin said, his voice as smooth and rich as melted butter, “Mr. _Sebastian_ Bodkin.”

“Herr Bach,” Scaarbach replied grumpily, “Herr Ottokar Bach.”

Bodkin chuckled to himself, “How amusing. Forgive me, but I wouldn’t dare be so bold as to inquire as to the truth behind the rumours regarding your current… situation.”

Scaarbach growled, barely under his breath, “Rumours?” If anyone so much as sneezed in public, word of it would spread through the inner world of the Janus Order like wildfire.

“It all sounded rather exciting, if I’m to be frank with you,” Bodkin’s voice gleamed brightly like a scandalised gossip, “Is it true that the St. Petersburg captain lost her stone, and you were sent to kill her?”

“That is true,” Scaarbach admitted, dreaded the doubtlessly flourished upon details that were going to follow.

“Is it also true then, that you maliciously seduced the Russian operative you were assigned under, only to try and betray him at the last minute? And not satisfied with this failure, you lied about your misdeeds and angered the Strix and the Dragon with your pig-headedness?” Bodkin asked, it was hard to see his face in the dimly lit carriage but he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself.

Scaarbach cleared his throat awkwardly, it was a hard thing to admit to, even to a fellow changeling, “You talk too much.” He wished he hadn’t said it, he didn’t want to miss Kozlóv when he was too invested in being furious with him.

“Ah,” Bodkin replied knowingly, “You might get away with that bluntness where you are from, but here in the _proper_ west, you will be expected to answer any question a superior may ask of you,” his eyes glowed angrily in the darkness.

“When a superior asks me one, I will remember that,” Scaarbach replied hotly, “But I’m not going to answer the questions of a nosy little chicken.”

There was a flash of movement and something hard was held to Scaarbach’s throat, 

“You know my name and loyalties, but nothing else,” Bodkin cooed in an uncomfortably cheerful tone, “Answer my questions, you cocky little shit.”

Scaarbach gulped, regardless of the youth’s apparent lack of seniority, he was hardly in a position to argue, “Fine,” he grumbled, “I’m just not used to talking about such things with a _child_.”

“Do me a favour and don’t pretend changeling’s have any innocence left to lose, Herr Bach,” Bodkin purred, “You and I both know what we had to do to get to the surface.”

“Fine - fine,” Scaarbach relented, “It’s true… it well, it got messy very quickly and I’d never tried to kill a fully grown changeling before,” he gestured vaguely in the darkness, “But what happened between Kozlóv and myself was unrelated.”

Bodkin chuckled, “So it’s true about the buggery, how fun! It’s such a pity that your plan fell to such ruins, I’m sure this Kozlóv fellow deserved whatever you had planned.”

“The Dragon disagrees,” Scaarbach muttered bitterly under his breath.

“Tell me though,” Bodkin asked, his voice low, “Is Kozlóv truly as impressive as they say he is?”

“Fuck this,” Scaarbach narrowed his glowing eyes, “How long until we get to your head quarters?”

“A few more hours yet I’m afraid,” Bodkin replied politely, “Castlemain House isn’t exactly in the heart of London, that would leave us far too conspicuous in the public eye.”

“Wonderful,” Scaarbach spat bitterly, “Are there any _other_ personal questions you want to ask, _Mr._ Bodkin?”

“Tell me, what was your assignment prior to the assassination of the St. Petersburg captain? Your… human face, if you will?” Bodkin asked carefully.

Scaarbach relaxed slightly, “I was a stable-hand for a time, but then I was asked to be a servant, then a travelling musician.”

“Have you _no_ experience with a needle and shears?” Bodkin seemed almost confused.

“I don’t even know how to sew on a button,” Scaarbach admitted.

“Yet I was told you could speak English, _and_ that you had prior experience as a tailor?” Bodkin sighed, “What good are you going to be if you can do none of those things?”

“That was the _point_ ,” Scaarbach moaned, “What better punishment than by sending me to a place I’ve never been, that speaks a language I don’t know, and practice a profession I have no skills in?”

“Ah. No wonder you look so sorry for yourself,” Bodkin mused, “Don’t worry, we’ll find a way to make the best of the situation.”

Scaarbach folded his arms and sulked, “Of course you’d say that.”

“Don’t be that way, my good chap,” Bodkin purred happily, clearly in his element, 

“Here, try a nip of this to lift your spirits,” he reached into his coat and pulled out a flask, handing it over.

Scaarbach opened it and sniffed cautiously, “It’s not poison, is it?”

“That would depend on whom you ask,” Bodkin chuckled to himself, “In truth it’s whiskey, the _good_ stuff.”

“I see,” Scaarbach took a swig and coughed as the smooth burn ate through his throat, “How much did you spend?”

Bodkin switched seats so as to sit next to him and gently ushered the flask back into his coat pocket, “I could dress you in silks, my good chap,” he sniffed haughtily.

“So you’re a tailor then?” Scaarbach asked, somewhat mellowed by the alcoholic glow that warmed him from with.

“That is correct,” Bodkin replied, more than a touch of pride in his voice, “I oversea the dressing of everyone in the Castlemain House, although I dress those who live upstairs personally.”

“Those who live upstairs?” Scaarbach wondered.

“Oh of course, if you’ve never been to Castlemain House,” Bodkin switched back to the opposing seat in the carriage, “The most notable would be Lady Sinclair née Dunaid and Lady Warburton née Waddingham, you’d know them as the Cockatrice and the Harpy respectively. There are others of course, but other than the husbands you need not to worry about them… for now.”

Scaarbach had, in his own indulgent self-absorption, completely forgotten about the most powerful members of the north-western branch of the Janus Order, “Are they anything like Sidonia and Wölfin?” he asked fearfully.

“The Dragon and the Strix?” Bodkin laughed, “I couldn’t say. I’ve never had the pleasure, although one hears _fearsome_ tales of their colourful histories. Oh to know the things they must have seen,” he sighed wistfully.

“I’m afraid of them,” Scaarbach admitted, everyone was afraid of them.

“As you should be,” Bodkin chuckled, “As should we all.”

“Do _you_ live upstairs?” Scaarbach asked, trying to pry the conversation back to pertinent matters.

“I suppose you could say that,” Bodkin mused, “One of the upper floors, yes, but I’m the tailor, and often times under-butler, not the master.”

“Tailor _and_ butler?” Scaarbach frowned, he’d worked in a big house before and a butler wouldn’t be caught dead working as a tailor.

“Allow me to make this as unambiguous as possible,” Bodkin began, “Castlemain House is a relatively large establishment and requires a great many servants to run, far greater than there are impure on this entire island. However, bar special cases, humans are not permitted entry in the upper floor, nor are they to get even a _hint_ of our true agenda. Our butler is an excellent operative, and occasionally called away on missions. It falls on myself to takeover his role acting as spokesperson between the upper and lower levels.”

“But you are a child?” Scaarbach struggled to see any human submitting to the commands of someone as young as Bodkin.

Bodkin sniffed haughtily, “I am, as it happens, fully grown.”

Scaarbach reached forwards and clasped his dewy cheeks between his hands, “I don’t believe you, little boy.”

Bodkin’s eyes glowed angrily, and the only sound was that of the rain that fell and the gentle sloshing of the horses as they trotted in the darkness, “Remove your hands from my person, good sir,” he hissed, teeth clenched, “I’ll have you know I’ve been on the surface since 1717.”

Scaarbach removed his hands and frowned, “That’s a little over eighty years,” he ran several ideas through his head, “Did… humans hurt you?”

“That is the story the servants are told,” Bodkin fussed about with his collars, “It is not strictly the truth however,” he exhaled sharply, “To your credit, you confessed the details of your… intimacies, and so it’s only fair I tell you of my own. I consider myself a victim of goblin _shenanigans_. As a young changeling it was known I knew myself as a boy, insofar as any young changeling is allowed to know themselves at all, but the familiar I was assigned… was not. I doubt the goblins cared to mark the difference, the Lady knows our masters don’t—” he paused for a moment, “— at least when it comes to us.”

“Oh I see!” Scaarbach exclaimed, dripping with relief that Bodkin was not quite the worldly youth he had taken him for.

“For my first few decades on the surface, I trained and worked as a ‘seamstress.’ I was quite good at it actually, but I hit that stage, you know the one, and legged it to Cork as a boy. There I worked as an apprentice tailor, switching between masters when it seemed off that I didn’t grow,” Bodkin sighed, “Alas I was caught by the humans and had to flee again to England. I’ve been at Castlemain House ever since.”

Scaarbach frowned, “So you’ve never been on a proper mission?”

“Of course I have, good sir,” Bodkin drew himself up defensively, “Nothing as _invigorating_ as hunting down a rogue captain, but I’ve been on _proper_ missions.”

“Quite,” Scaarbach replied, not believing it for a second, “What can you tell me about Castlemain House?” he asked, making the most of the conversation.

“Hmm,” Bodkin mused, “It was commissioned in the 17th Century by a noble whose name was not worth remembering,” he began, “It was built over the remains of an old castle that had fallen to ruin, rumoured to have been razed by a witch.”

“About the household,” Scaarbach sighed impatiently.

“Oh of course, I see,” Bodkin fussed with his collars awkwardly, “You didn’t hear it from me, but the cook and the groundskeeper have secretly engaged. The vicar is quite partial to a drop of red wine, and is always good for a quick tumble, but don’t trust him, not even for a second. Don’t cross our physician, ever,” he let the unspoken threat hang in the air, “Lord Sinclair and Lord Warburton are protected humans, they aren’t to know what happens here, but treat them as respectfully as if they were the Cockatrice or the Harpy themselves. No one can know they aren’t the _true_ lords of this house.”

Scaarbach nodded to himself, mentally taking notes, “Who is the troublemaker of the house?”

Bodkin paused for a long moment, thinking to himself, “Oh! I think that’s me!” he laughed, “You definitely don’t want to get on the wrong side of me,” his tone made a sinister drop and in that moment, Scaarbach believed him.

⁂

Scaarbach curled up on his side of the carriage, lulled by the gentle rocking and white noise of the rain. It had been what felt hours before they got to Castlemain House. They drove up the long and probably picturesque driveway and were let out in front of what was likely the servant’s entry. They dashed through the rain and took shelter in the modest foyer. Bodkin wiped his spectacles dry with a handkerchief he kept hidden in his breast pocket.

“It is quite late, so we must whisper so as not to wake the sleeping humans,” Bodkin whispered, “Don’t worry about your trunk, it will get back to you in the morning,” he turned to Scaarbach, “It’s here I must asked you to disarm yourself, I’m sure you can behave yourself well enough, but nobody else in the household is going to trust you with any weapon for some time.”

Scaarbach groaned like a petulant child, “If I must,” he sighed, pulling out various daggers, tools and devices.

Bodkin cleared his throat expectantly, “Come now, my good chap, I wasn’t born yesterday.”

With a theatrical sigh, Scaarbach begrudgingly handed over several vials of drugs and poisons, “Will I get these back?” he asked mournfully.

“Of course you may,” Bodkin replied, putting the aforementioned weapons into a box, “Follow me now, it’s far too late to give you the full tour, but I’ll walk you through the bare essentials for tonight,” he led them both up a flight of stairs and down a long and draughty hallway, “It all looks quite different by daylight,” he whispered, “Of course there are places you mustn’t go, but on your very first night it would be madness to expect you to know them all. The most important are the kitchen and the women’s dormitories,” he fumbled with some keys and unlocked a door, ducking in for half a second and returning without the box, “Sorry about that, but we can’t have humans stumbling in on your tools of the trade,” they continued down the hallway and went back down another flight of stairs, “You’ll be sleeping in the men’s dormitories yourself. There’s a chest at the end of your cot to store your _inoffensive_ belongings, a chamber pot underneath if you need to pass water,” he paused and cleared his throat awkwardly, “It’s indelicate of me to say, but it’s frowned upon to use the pot in the dormitories for… earthier matters. It’s inconvenient I know, but after the last bout of dysentery our physician absolutely insists. For your own good I recommend you use the water closet for such things during the night, although we recently installed a new privy on the grounds,” he turned down a narrow corridor and opened a door, revealing the aforementioned water closet for a second before closing it again, “It should also be mentioned that the humans who live here are devoutly Christian, there is a chapel on the premises and you _will_ be expected to attend Mass on Sundays.”

Scaarbach made a disgusted guttural noise, “When the masters go fox hunting am I to run ahead of the horses and flush the beasts out of their dens?”

“No, but that’s a terribly amusing thought. I must remember to recall it to my Lady Gormlaith. I’m sure it will bring a smile to her face,” Bodkin chuckled under his breath, “However, I really cannot stress enough how unwelcome certain… behaviours will be received by your dorm-mates. I mean no judgement from myself personally, but I refer of course to any _intimate_ indulgences that would be considered a sin in their eyes.”

Scaarbach sighed, “Or you’ll cut off my hands, yes I know. I’ve already gotten enough of _that_ from Wölfin.”

“Cut off your hands?” Bodkin exclaimed behind a scandalised hand, “My good sir, I was merely going to insist that you use the water closet or privy in _secret_ like a civilised person,” he paused awkwardly for a moment, “She was joking, surely?”

Scaarbach chuckled humourlessly, “I guarantee she was not.”

“Did you really anger her _that_ much?” Bodkin asked.

“I may have—” Scaarbach coughed, “— said… some things.”  
Bodkin tutted disapprovingly, “You really must be on your best behaviour in this house, I hope you understand this.”

“I know,” Scaarbach muttered forlornly.

Bodkin opened the door opposite the water closet and walked him in, “Your bed is this one here, clean of course. Don’t disturb the humans, and don’t worry about tonight. Sleep as much as you can and I’ll wake you personally in the morning. It’s going to be another big day for you, but I have taken an additional day off to ensure things go as smoothly as possible,” he whispered, gesturing in the darkness towards a low cot nestled in a room full of humans.

Scaarbach sat on the edge of the cot, unbuckling his shoes, it had little in the way off support but at least it seemed freshly made, “Am I free to use our language around the humans?” he asked, stripping off his still damp clothes.

“Of course,” Bodkin chuckled softly, “They are told it is Frisian.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like Bodkin, he's a bastard like all the others but he's a very self-aware bastard.


	15. London Headquarters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon arriving at the headquarters, known as the ‘Castlemain House,’ Scaarbach quickly learns that he has a steep learning curve ahead of him as he comes to terms with the major players within the north-eastern branch of the Janus Order.
> 
> CW: Discussions of Murder

It was a frustratingly long night. Although the bed was clean, the wool itched his skin, and smell of the damp permeated every surface. Scaarbach passed the time trying to count how many other men he shared the dormitory with based on snores and bed spacing alone. By his count there seemed to be around fifteen to twenty five, but he couldn’t be completely sure until daylight. The only other actively awake person seemed to be a young boy, who stole himself away to the water closet several times to cough violently before crawling back into bed. Scaarbach hoped the dormitory was a temporary measure, but deep down he suspected it was part of the punishment and unlikely to change.

Dawn approached, as evidenced by the distant sounds of comings and goings from what was probably the kitchen staff. Some of the men rose earlier, grabbing their things and hurrying off, muttering under their breath. At some point a young boy who couldn’t have been older than eight tentatively approached his cot, tugging at his woollen jacket that seemed to itch him. They shared a brief hello, before the boy quickly lost lost interest after realising Scaarbach couldn’t actually understand English at all. He settled back under the blankets, resolved that until Bodkin showed himself personally, he was in no obligation to arise.

At least an hour passed, perhaps another, and finally in the isolation of the otherwise empty dormitory, Scaarbach fell asleep. He dreamt of the dark, suffocating bellies of ships, cities devoid of human life, and vast feasts for him and him alone. To his annoyance Bodkin appeared, bursting Scaarbach’s bubble of quiet rebellion.

“I hope you slept well Mr. Bach,” Bodkin smirked, “Hurry up and get dressed, you must be starving.”

Roused by the possibility of food, Scaarbach scrambled into his clothes as quickly as possible, “Couldn’t sleep, too many humans,” he mumbled.

Bodkin watched him carefully as he fumbled with his buttons, “Lets hope for your sake this is something you can overcome.”

Scaarbach flashed him a filthy look, “Lets hope,” he repeated.

Bodkin led Scaarbach through the house to the kitchens, pointing out which rooms lay behind every door. Scaarbach himself remained silent, determined to remember as much as he could regarding the anatomy of the house as soon as possible, still bitter about having to pretend to be a human on no sleep. The kitchen itself was bustling with activity and as many servants as possible were crammed into the space as they ate their breakfast. Bodkin spoke to a particularly blunt looking woman and one of the younger girls leapt up and ladled what was probably porridge into two bowls and handed them to him on a tray.

Bodkin then led Scaarbach around a corner and ducked into a hidden alcove fitted with a simply dressed table and exactly three chairs. He placed the bowls down and sat neatly in a chair.

“Here we are,” Bodkin cooed brightly, “You’ll be dining with me. Until you can speak English you’ll just be getting under everyone’s toes.”

“Do you always eat here?” Scaarbach wondered, getting himself comfortable.

Bodkin made a dismissive gesture, “That entirely depends on circumstances, you’ll see soon enough,” he dipped a spoon into the steaming bowl and blew on it before taking a bite, “You can eat, dear chap, no need to pray.”

Scaarbach breathed a sigh of relief and spooned the hot porridge into his mouth. It was scalding and had no flavour, but he was starving and no longer plagued by the insufferable nausea at sea. It seemed once he had started, it became impossible to stop.

“Our Sweet Lady,” Bodkin exclaimed, “I’m sure Miss Cartwright, will be pleased to hear someone enjoyed her morning’s toil.”

Not wanting to wait until his breakfast went cold, Scaarbach opted to ignore the changeling’s words and continued to down his breakfast by the shovel-full. Reaching the end of the bowl, he turned the spoon aside, and licked out the contents in a desperate frenzy like a child. Having licked the bowl clean he put is aside and crossed his arms awkwardly as he waited for Bodkin to finish.

Bodkin chuckled under his breath, but finished the porridge at a more dignified pace, delicately patting his mouth with a handkerchief, “Hmm,” he mused thoughtfully, peering at Scaarbach through his small circular spectacles, “I don’t suppose you’d have any English money on your person?”

“There’s money in my trunk,” Scaarbach frowned, “Why?”

Bodkin cleared his throat and put the empty bowls and spoons on the tray, “Wait here for a moment and I will let you in on a little tip,” he ducked out of the hidden alcove and disappeared.

Scaarbach sighed and curled up with his head on the table, resting his face between his folded arms. He’d undoubtably only get a few minutes alone, but it was the closest thing to peace and quiet that he expected he was going to see for a long while. He tried to tell himself that if he got desperate he could steal away in the middle of the night and catch a few hours actual sleep before sneaking back into the dormitory without anyone noticing. It would never work, but it was a nice fantasy all the same.

A young voice cleared their throat impatiently, “Come now, if you’re good I might let you have the afternoon off,” Bodkin tapped his shoulder, “For now, you must follow me.”

Scaarbach pulled himself up and tried not to audibly sigh, “What am I supposed to call you? ‘Sir’ doesn’t seem right.”

Bodkin thought for a moment as they turned another corner, “Mr. Bodkin will substitute nicely I think. I know you are technically my senior, but only just, and you are currently disgraced which gives me the slightest edge. No judgement intended of course,” he opened a door and walked inside, gesturing for Scaarbach to follow, “Now I’ll let you in on a secret. I happen to keep a basin of clean water in my quarters at all times, for a sovereign or two, it is available to purchase,” he flashed him a wicked grin in a manner only a changeling could muster, “If I’m not around, you are free to use it for three or four sovereigns, however if I happened to walk in on you… _indisposed_ in my quarters, it becomes five to six sovereigns.”

“Why are you telling me this, Mr. Bodkin?” Scaarbach wondered, starting to feel suspicious.

Bodkin leant forward conspiratorially, “You have porridge all over your whiskers, dear chap.”

“Oh,” Scaarbach shrugged and wiped his face on the back of his sleeve as Bodkin visibly shuddered, “There, problem’s solved,” Scaarbach concluded.

“No - no - no,” Bodkin groaned, “Don’t you understand? You’re going to be presented to _the_ Harpy and Cockatrice this morning!”

“Oh…,” Scaarbach groaned, “But I have no money with me,” he dismayed.

Bodkin opened a side cabinet and pulled out a book, “Don’t worry, I have a system,” he fished around for his ink and quill, “Mr. Ottokar Bach, owes one sovereign for the use of the basin on the morning of Tuesday, the 26th of November, 1799,” he read out as he wrote, “We can arrange the payment at a later date,” he pointed at a spot on the table, “Sign here, and in Roman please, Runic makes the humans nervous.”

Scaarbach begrudgingly signed his name and handed over the quill, “There.”

Bodkin nodded and led him into his bedroom, gesturing towards a delicate china jug and basin on a stand, “Hurry now, you’re not some delicate young thing taking her morning toilette.”

Scaarbach restrained himself from flashing the changeling a look and did as he was told, after mostly a year in Russia and a month in the catacombs of Berlin, fresh water in a neat and tidy bedroom was a luxury worth paying for.

⁂

Bodkin led Scaarbach up a flight of stairs and into a brightly lit hall lined with marble busts and splashes of colour that probably represented silk flowers. Scaarbach was a little taken aback by the sudden switch in palette, and realised that he had just passed the threshold between the downstairs and domain of the servants, and the upstairs and domain of the Janus Order. The sounds of a harpsichord being played delicately in an unseen room echoed down the hall. Bodkin rapped politely on what appeared to be the frame of a narrow bookcase. The bookcase opened, betraying itself as a secret door. A fairly stout man stepped out, dressed in rather stately but old-fashioned clothes, and met Bodkin an annoyed grumble.

“Good morning, Mr. Bonvisi my good sir,” Bodkin bowed curtly, “This is Scaarbach, also known as Mr. Bach,” he pushed the changeling forward.

“Good morning, Bonvisi sir,” Scaarbach echoed, bowing sloppily and trying to smooth out the wrinkles in his waistcoat and jacket.

Bonvisi looked Scaarbach up and down and sneered, “Alright, lets take a look at him,” he grabbed him by the chin and turned his head to the side, “Is this really the _best_ you can do, Bodkin?”

“I’m afraid so,” Bodkin sighed, “Gormlot and Catwadder wouldn’t approve if he presents _disingenuously_.”

Bonvisi snorted derisively, “Gormlot and Catwadder aren’t going to approve of this piece of shit regardless of how he looks,” he forcibly untied Scaarbach’s cravat, “We still have the responsibility to ensure he doesn’t look like a _complete_ pig farmer,” he retied the cravat so tightly Scaarbach gagged, “Pity you didn’t do anything about the smell,” he sniffed haughtily.

“Hey!” Scaarbach exclaimed defensively, “I can hear you, you know?”

Bonvisi rolled his eyes, “Isn’t that adorable, our little pet thinks we care what he thinks.”

Bodkin put a hand on Scaarbach’s shoulder, “Don’t worry about the butler, good chap, it’s his job to be an insufferable prick.”

Scaarbach froze, careful so as not to come across in anyway as agreeing with Bodkin, “Sir,” he replied as dutifully as he could muster.

“Is it true what they say about him?” Bonvisi asked, smirking at Bodkin’s proprietary hand.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Bodkin sniffed.

“Don’t pretend that you didn’t hear the same story as myself,” Bonvisi sighed, “If you tried half of that insult’s misdoings on me I’d have you turned out.”

Bodkin smirked, “It was my understanding you had no interest in such _activities_ so why would I try them with you?”

“Ah - ha!” Bonvisi yelled triumphantly, “You _do_ know what I mean!”

“Of course I know of them,” Bodkin sniffed haughtily, “But I am _far_ too much of a gentlemen to discuss the details in anything but the _strictest_ of confidence.”

Bonvisi snorted derisively, “You’re not a gentlemen at _all_ , Mr. Bodkin.”

Bodkin smoothed his hair dashingly, “That’s just what I want you to think, dear chap.”  
“I have better things to do than stand around enduring your cheek, Bodkin,” Bonvisi sighed, “I will announce your arrival to our ladies in question,” he paused to sneer at Scaarbach again, “Is there really nothing you can do about the smell?”

The butler turned on his heel stiffly, and ducked back into where he came from, closing the secret door behind him as he left. Scaarbach tried to surreptitiously smell himself, but choked as the cravat pressed against his throat.

“So what do you think of our Bonvisi, good chap?” Bodkin asked, mercifully untying the cravat with his deft fingers.

“He seems like an insufferable prick,” Scaarbach whispered, slightly paranoid he’d be overheard.

Bodkin chuckled, retrying the cravat so the blood could return to Scaarbach’s head, “Bonvisi has a novel way of trying to intimidate others,” he paused to admire his handy work, “There, this is your preferred method, but slightly neater. Gormlot and Catwadder would know his knot in an instant.”

Scaarbach looked in the direction of hands, suddenly incredibly nervous, “Thank you Mr. Bodkin,” he muttered under his breath.

Bodkin beamed, “Now remember, be on your best behaviour. It’s better to make mistakes in earnest than not try at all.”

Scaarbach considered strangling the man for the dreadful human line, “Yes, thank you Mr. Bodkin.”

With little more than a gentle creak, the secret door opened once again, “Lady Gormlaith Sinclair née Dunaid, and Lady Catherine Warburton née Waddingham will now receive you,” Bonvisi sniffed, “Please be advised that Lord Sinclair, and Lord Warburton are in attendance this morning.”

Bodkin nodded, “Very good, thank you Mr. Bonvisi.”

Scaarbach followed Bodkin up the hall, trying desperately to swallow his tongue. He was utterly positive that he was going to say or do the wrong thing despite himself and be sent back to Berlin in double-disgrace. As he listened to the harpsichord growing ever louder, he wondered what would happened to him when he got there. A dark, malicious part of him whispered that they’d declare he’d lost his stone and hunt him down then and there. He gulped. It was an end he wasn’t looking forward to, but an end he was beginning to suspect was his true fate.

Bodkin placed a gentle hand on the small of his back, and leant across, “Whatever you do, don’t make direct eye contact!” he hissed under his breath, withdrawing the hand as delicately as it had been placed.

Scaarbach reached the end on the hall and gulped, bracing himself for whatever reception awaited him. The large wide doors were turned aside, and two humans stood there, both looking Scaarbach up and down with great distaste. They said something in English, Bodkin bowed and replied in turn. He yanked Scaarbach down by his hand, who took the hint and bowed as well. Bodkin cleared his throat and Scaarbach realised he was standing upright again. He straightened up and followed the three men into the large room.

A woman sat with her back towards them, playing what sounded to be a particularly grand harpsichord. Scaarbach couldn’t see her well, but the train of her white dress trailed onto the ground, and her crown was a blob of darkness above her head. For a moment he lost himself in the delicate melody, wondering if the choice of Bach’s Klavierübung IV had been intentional, hearing too late Bodkin’s muffled yet desperate attempts to get his attention. Scaarbach turned to him, and realised to his horror he was ignoring another woman reclined in front of him on a chaise longue. He bowed several times over in the hopes this would make up for his transgression.

The doors closed behind him and he suddenly felt very trapped. Scaarbach instinctively turned towards Bodkin, who stared ahead blankly with hands held by his sides just so. Fumbling, Scaarbach attempted to copy the posture, and came up with a sloppy but hopefully serviceable imitation.

“My dear Kitty plays quite beautifully, does she not?” the woman purred for her chaise, letting what was probably a book rest in her lap.

Scaarbach nodded stiffly, unsure if he had permission to speak. He dropped his eyes, terrified he’d make contact, and found them lingering on the white fabric of her dress.

“Come forward, let me have a look at you,” the changeling he assumed was Gormlot held out her hand in his general direction.

“Yes… my lady,” Scaarbach replied, stepping forward and completely terrified of her mellow tone.

Gormlot stood up and encircled him, “You’re not much to look at, are you Scaarbach?”

Scaarbach bowed his head, catching a glimpse of the strawberry curls she had bound upon her head in the Greek fashion, “No, my lady.”

“ _Nor_ do you have a particularly impressive history,” Gormlot continued, her voice lyrical like a babbling brook on a summer’s morning.

“No, my lady,” Scaarbach repeated forlornly.

“I read the reports, as I’m sure you’ve surmised,” Gormlot examined her finger nails carefully, “You certainly don’t come across as _inherently_ foolish,” she slipped a glove onto her bare hand, “Uncouth certainly, and arguably naïve perhaps, but don’t think I haven’t noticed how carefully you’re watching me.”

“I’m sorry, my lady,” Scaarbach cursed himself, he was such a fool to not conceal his attention more diligently.

“Don’t apologise,” Gormlot cooed, sweet as poison, “I dare say you’re as unrefined as they come, however I’m willing to bet you’re sharp as a dagger in the back.”

“If that is how you see it, my lady,” Scaarbach hazarded, not sure if that was something he wanted to agree to or not.

“Tell me, Scaarbach, and tell me truthfully,” Gormlot began, “What did you do, and why did you do it?”

Scaarbach took a deep breath, “I was assigned to accompany Kozlóv, the assassin, on his mission to track and take out the captain of the St. Petersburg base, Velima. I… decided to kill her myself. I’ve been in the Order for over a hundred years and I didn’t believe Kozlóv could do it better than me. I’m not happy to be just a messenger when we have an even more important mission to fulfil, my lady,” he decided to get the worst out of the way first.

“I see,” Gormlot replied carefully.

“Velima was headed for Siberia where she believed traitors had built a sanctuary,” Scaarbach frowned, trying to remember the events in the right order, “We knew this because she had been leaving rune sticks behind containing messages for us, often around human buildings surrounded by corpses. She had cut their throats from behind. We found a little boy and Kozlóv ordered me to kill him but I couldn’t do it,” he looked up nervously, expecting scorn, “He’d been alone for two weeks after Velima killed his family and he was frightened and hungry, and didn’t realise we were the same as her. By returning him to his remaining family, Kozlóv managed to get us a better sleigh. Our horses died, so Kozlóv pulled the sleigh himself. On several occasions, it felt like she had gifted us with the buildings as they were stocked with food when were running out of supplies.”

“I’m not here to question her motivations,” Gormlot said, “Although I can’t help wonder why she did that.”

Scaarbach nodded and took another deep breath, “It was late January when we finally found her. It was night, and we could smell the smoke and dogs from inside the hut. We got closer on foot and made a tent in hiding. Kozlóv ordered me to stay hidden until dawn, where we could attack in daylight, but I disobeyed him. I knew it was my only chance to get her, so I snuck down with the last of our food supplies and fed them to her dogs. Velima told me to go away but I managed to convince her I had lost my stone and wanted sanctuary in Siberia. She fed me broth while we talked. There was no doubt she had lost her stone,” he looked down at his hands, “When she turned her back on me I tried to kill her, but she threw me off and stabbed my leg with a poker from the fire. That was when the dogs attacked and Kozlóv came. She ran off when he demanded she show her face. Outside the hut Kozlóv killed her.”

“Is that all?” Gormlot asked.

“No my lady,” Scaarbach frowned, “Kozlóv found her journal and had been reading it for days. When he left the hut and I was able enough to reach it, I read the book for myself. It… upset me, my lady. It was a dangerous book full of dangerous questions. She knew we’d be reading it and wanted to break our stone, my lady,” he looked up at the grand commandant imploringly, “So I threw it in the fire. Kozlóv retrieved the evidence before it was destroyed. In my defence I was genuinely trying to protect our interests, I didn’t think the Dragon and Strix needed to see it personally. Kozlóv corrected me,” he winced, “I made many mistakes.”

“So you wanted to prove yourself, better yourself?” Gormlot smiled coldly, “It wasn’t a dishonourable goal but the details needed a lot to be desired. I hope you learned your lesson well. I’m sure young Bodkin has so many more in store for you.”

“About that, my lady Dunaid,” Bodkin asked, “May I please speak with you regarding our priorities?”

Gormlot’s expression froze and turned her attention to the tailor, “You speak out of turn, my dear child.”

“My apologies, lady Dunaid,” Bodkin bowed curtly.

“You may speak, as long as you keep it short, my dear Bodkin,” Gormlot sighed patiently.

Bodkin coughed awkwardly, “It’s nothing, my lady Dunaid, however it’s come to my attention he doesn’t speak a _word_ of English. I request your permission to focus on this before he even sees a needle.”

Gormlot frowned, “English should be your priority, I absolutely agree, but I don’t see why he can’t work on the occasional sampler between lessons.”

Bodkin bowed again, “Understood, my lady Dunaid. I will adapt my lessons accordingly.”

“Thank you, my dear Bodkin,” Gormlot waved her hand delicately in the direction of the doors, “You’re dismissed. Please assist Gerbrander while we interrogate our guest in private.”

“As you wish, my lady Dunaid,” Bodkin bowed and backed his way out of the room.

Scaarbach gulped despite himself, although Gormlot seemed by all appearances a cordial woman, that could change in any moment. She reminded him of Sidonia a great deal, and expected nothing but the Dragon’s glacial cruelty if he dared put so much as a foot out of line.

“I’ve heard the rumours about you,” Gormlot said, retaking her seat upon the chaise longue, “I can’t say I approve of much of what I heard, nor do I fancy having to play host to a pathetic little operative who aimed too high with no arrows in his quiver,” she arranged her skirts, the train of her dress falling prettily, “Come closer, get on your knees.”

“Yes, my lady,” Scaarbach did as he was told, looking down at his hands nervously.

“As I’m sure you already know, I have been a member of the Order longer than most,” Gormlot smiled down at him warmly, “I remember a time when our masters were not imprisoned. I remember Them _personally_.”

Scaarbach gasped, of course he had always suspected the elder changelings pre-dated the battle of Killahead, but the very thought of being able to meet proper Trolls in person sent shivers down his spine. He’d seen exactly one during his time in the Darklands, and only a fool would call _him_ a true warrior.

“I have seen and endured more than you can possibly imagine,” Gormlot continued, her voice betraying a hint of anger and disgust, “I could have lost my stone a thousand times over, as so many of us have fallen, yet _I_ endure.”

“You are _the_ Cockatrice, my lady,” Scaarbach fawned, “Rivalled only by the Whispering Basilisk,” the music came to an abrupt halt. Scaarbach thought for a moment he had said something wrong and awaited conformation.

Gormlot snorted, “He’s no _rival_ , the man is an outlier who defies our strict hierarchy at the behest of our betters.”

There was a brief rustling of papers and Catwadder continued on with her delicate rendering of Bach’s variations.

“My lady?” Scaarbach wasn’t sure what she meant by her words.

“I am merely saying any comparison to that man would be inappropriate,” Gormlot smiled, humour dancing in her smile, “He is incomparable.”

“Intolerable,” Catwadder chuckled, masterly not missing a single note of her art.

“I meant no offence, my ladies—” Scaarbach hazarded, “— only to humble myself.”

“So I understand,” Gormlot replied graciously, “But tell me of Berlin, I hope that our little Frenchman hasn’t been making your lives too difficult?”

Scaarbach frowned, truth be told he hadn’t paid attention to non-changeling affairs since he had left for Russia, “The _Frenchman_ , as you say, is under close surveillance, my lady,” he said, confident the situation hadn’t changed so rapidly since he had been gone.

“I expect nothing less of Sidonia,” Gormlot replied cordially, “I wonder if he realises exactly how many eyes fall upon him in the wake of his actions?”

“I couldn’t say, my lady,” Scaarbach mumbled.

“And how are the catacombs fairing?” Gormlot asked, “The last time I was in Berlin it was in the early 16th Century and only to discuss what to do with the New World,” she chuckled, “I feared the whole thing would collapse even then.”

“The catacombs were reinforced with a holding spell,” Scaarbach explained, “It would take a great force to make them crumble, my lady,” he reassured her.

“Ah yes, but I am not so confident with Sidonia’s magic,” Gormlot grunted, “Would you trust her to work magic on you?”

“The Dragon is my Grand Commandant, my lady,” Scaarbach cringed, not wanting to say a word against her.

Gormlot chuckled to herself, “You want to do good by her, don’t you?”

“Of course, my lady,” Scaarbach insisted, “Her and the Order.”

“You understand that to do good by her, and the Order, you must do good by me, don’t you Scaarbach?” Gormlot asked, the smallest hint of her trollish voice slipping through.

Scaarbach nodded obediently, “I do, my lady,” he hazarded, trying not to look in the direction of her eyes.

“Of course you do,” Gormlot cooed, as though speaking to a child.

“My lady?” Scaarbach began, spontaneously forgetting how to speak under her watchful gaze.

“Is there anything you would ask of me, Scaarbach?” Gormlot asked smoothly, “Before I have you dismissed.”

Scaarbach gulped and then rummaged around in his pockets, “No, my lady, but I have a letter for you from the Dragon herself,” he pulled out the letter and held it out, remembering too late the porridge he had smeared into the back of his sleeve.  
Gormlot took the letter and broke the seal with a dagger she had hidden on her person, “I see,” she mused thoughtfully, “Thank you, it does you credit that Sidonia would trust you with this.”

Scaarbach frowned, “Thank you, my lady,” he replied, slightly insulted but endeavouring to sound gracious.

“Oh, and one last thought before you leave,” Gormlot began, her voice as sweet as honeyed cakes, “If you are nothing less than the very _picture_ of obedience and loyalty you’ll find your time here most… insidious.”

Scaarbach’s eyes widened and he gulped despite himself, “Yes, my lady.”  
Gormlot waved her hand dismissively, as though trying to bat away an unwanted tray of hors d'oeuvres, “Please leave, I have business to attend to.”

Catwadder stood from the harpsichord, and fetched something white that she had sat above it. She fiddled with them, beyond Scaarbach’s range of vision, and then smoothed out her crisp white skirts. Silently she glided over to him and placed a light gloved hand on his shoulder. He jumped.

“Flighty little bird, aren’t you?” Catwadder laughed, “Come now, Gerbander is waiting for you,” although he didn’t dare look her in the eyes, Scaarbach’s attention fell to her mouth. It was small and full, rosy pink, and turned to a wicked smirk that gave her middle-aged features the fire of youth.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” Scaarbach bowed his apologies in the hope this would smooth over the transgression, “As you say, my lady.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, this chapter is basically an Uhl fic chapter in length. Did you spot my sly little reference to Strickler.


	16. Needles Within the Sweetcakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Harpy has some advice for Scaarbach, which gives him some food for thought. Little does he realise, however, that Castlemain House is harbouring someone he never thought he’d ever have to see again and with no allies, Scaarbach is forced to make a difficult decision in order to survive.
> 
> CW: Suspect Medical Practices, Allusions to Biological Warfare, Nudity, Bullying

Scaarbach followed the commandant through a secret passage behind a large oil painting of a miscellaneous British landscape. The tunnel itself was dark and musty, and for a moment Scaarbach longed for the Berlin headquarters, the closest thing he had to a home. Catwadder stopped, turning to face him and blocking his way forward. Her eyes glowed, giving the faintest light to her features.

“You’re a funny little thing,” Catwadder smirked, Scaarbach couldn’t see her mouth but he was positive she was smirking.

“I’m sorry, my lady?” Scaarbach averted his gaze, staring in the direction of his shoes.

“Of course, I also heard the rumours about you,” Catwadder said, taking a step closer, “The reports were very interesting. I learnt a _great_ deal about you,” she took another step closer, “Did you know that Kozlóv wrote to me personally?”

Scaarbach gasped, he didn’t mean to but there was something about hearing _his_ name uttered from her mouth, “No, my lady, I had absolutely _no_ idea.”

“He _implored_ that I ease your sentence,” Catwadder placed an elegantly gloved hand under his chin, “He says you have great potential and wants to train you at his base.”

Scaarbach blushed furiously, “Oh he _does_ , does he?” he spat bitterly.

“He remains quite taken with you, I suspect,” Catwadder continued, “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he feels for you what Gormlaith feels for me.”

“That’s his problem,” Scaarbach muttered, “Oh uh, my lady,” he added, remembering himself.

“Are you saying you’d rather be here than under him?” Catwadder asked.

Scaarbach frowned, “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying, my lady.”

Catwadder tsked, “Kozlóv will be disappointed to hear that, however I’m certain you could learn far more useful skills at Castlemain House than anything _he_ might teach you.”

“I hope so, my lady,” Scaarbach replied.

“Kozlóv is a brute,” Catwadder stated matter-of-factly, “A useful brute and a credit to the Order, but you are never going to _be_ a brute. You know this, don’t you, Scaarbach?”

“Yes, my lady,” Scaarbach replied mournfully, “Now more than ever.”

“Do you think of _myself_ as a brute?” Catwadder asked, her voice low.

“No, my lady!” Scaarbach exclaimed, “You are the _Harpy_ , mistress of deception and entrapment, mother of manipulation.”

“Very good,” Catwadder purred, “I want you to think about why I would bring this to your attention.”

Scaarbach exhaled, he had been trying to hold his breath as she was so very close to his face, but he was beginning to understand her message and it was overwhelming, “My - my lady,” he stammered.

Catwadder mercifully removed her hands and backed away, “Enough about the future, we can’t keep Gerbrander waiting.”

⁂

The commandant and her charge came through a hidden door and entered into the doctor’s surgery. Bodkin was waiting for them, seated on the far side of the room, recognisable by the distinct smell of his whiskey. Another man, Scaarbach assumed he could only be the changeling known as Gerbrander, sat at what seemed to be some kind of desk.

“My lady Waddingham,” Gerbrander got to his feet and bowed.

“Good morning, my dear Gerbrander,” Catwadder replied, nodding and then taking the seat Bodkin had vacated.

“My lady Waddingham,” Bodkin bowed, acknowledging her right of way.

“You must be the new chap,” Gerbrander concluded, holding out a hand.

“Yes sir, I am Scaarbach,” Scaarbach replied, trying to match the man’s surprisingly firm handshake.

“Yes, of course. I am Dr. Tulp, the resident physician,” Gerbrander gestured at a cot in the side of the room, “Please take a seat.”

Scaarbach felt a shiver run down his spine, “What - what is going to happen?”

“It is customary for newcomers to Castlemain to undergo physical examination,” Gerbrander explained, “Humans as well as changelings, everyone is recorded and kept in the directory.”

“Why sir?” Scaarbach didn’t much fancy the idea of any kind of examination but the idea of them being recorded seemed as though it had specific purpose he had no business objecting to.

“Identification, research,” Gerbrander waved his hand amiably, “I am currently looking into our innate resistance to diseases. It is a _particular_ interest of mine if we can become carriers of disease. You will be assisting my curiosity.”

“I will, sir?” Scaarbach asked, not daring to refuse.

“You are, to my understanding, not a man unfamiliar with the _human_ urges,”

Gerbrander placed a large book on the cot next to him, “Can you say with any degree of certainty that you have come in contact with humans who had _without doubt_ contracted some kind of venereal disease?”

Scaarbach grimaced, “No! That’s disgusting!”

“Is that as a result of your poor education on the subject, or meticulous selection on your part?” Gerbrander placed a larger book next to him on the cot.

“No, I don’t know!” Scaarbach crossed his arms defensively, “Both?”

Gerbrander tutted as though everyone should know such things, “I will put you down as likely but uncertain.”

“Why do you want to know about that anyway, sir?” Scaarbach demanded.

“Well think about it,” Gerbrander replied, the passion clear in his voice, “If we can transmit diseases, we could make a human sick on purpose, perhaps even kill them!”

“Oh,” Scaarbach could see the practical usage but it seemed a far less reliable way than just stabbing someone, or implicating them in a case of petty to high treason.

“If you would just follow me,” Gerbrander gestured at another door, “There is but one detail that needs attended to.”

Scaarbach frowned but followed him into the room. It was shockingly cosy, the fireplace was lit, a table by the door was spread with an assortment of cheeses and a bottle of wine. Scaarbach considered trying to steal some but other than possible reprimands, it probably wasn’t wise to try and steal organics from a man dedicated to studying diseases.

Gerbrander approached him, handing over a flannel and slither of soap, “You will bathe _thoroughly_ before the examination, please be careful not to miss anywhere and _don’t_ skip the soap.”

Scaarbach took them cautiously, “Is this a test, sir?”

“Yes,” Gerbrander sniffed, gesturing in the direction of the fire place, “Now hurry yourself before the water grows cold. There is another flannel to dry yourself with, and a robe you must wear afterwards. Come back through once you’re ready.”

“Yes sir,” Scaarbach replied, waiting for him to leave him a small amount of privacy.

Gerbrander left the room, leaving the door ajar but closed enough the heat from the fire wouldn’t be completely wasted. Scaarbach fumbled about the room trying to find the aforementioned items, including the bathtub itself. He found the flannel and robe draped over a chair, banging his foot on the edge of the bathtub that had seemed nearly invisible to him against the flooring. With a tentative finger he tested the water and found it was still warm but in no way hot. It was disappointing, but he expected no less.

Sighing, Scaarbach quickly undressed, leaving his clothes folded on the floor and stepped into the tub, soap and flannel in hand. He tucked the soap within the cloth, and lathered his skin and hair. He had no idea when he might be granted the luxury of soap again and was going to take advantage of the opportunity. It was impossible to fully enjoy the experience.

Although the fire was nice, and the soap had a pleasant floral smell and gentleness that suggested it was of the utmost quality, the open door was letting in a draft that wasn’t helped by the cooling temperatures of the water itself. Not to mention the knowledge of his immediate future wasn’t helping him relax. As angry with Kozlóv as he was, he longed for that day in St. Petersburg. It had just been them, and he’d been allowed to soak for as long as he wanted. There certainly hadn’t been unwelcome spectators, although they had been careful to keep things discreet just in case.

Scaarbach removed himself from the water, drying himself with the flannel, and pulling on the robe. It was quilted and surprisingly comfortable, despite being a struggle to get it to wrap over properly in the front. Tentatively, he stepped through into the physician’s office and stood at the doorway awkwardly. Judging by the blobs of colours, Gerbrander had settled at his desk, while Bodkin remained standing by Catwadder’s side.

“Very good,” Gerbrander said, standing up, “Take a seat, I normally start at the head, the teeth specifically, and work my way down.”

“Is the audience necessary, sir?” Scaarbach asked.

“All examinations recorded into the directory are to be supervised to ensure accuracy and prevent misdirection,” Catwadder replied carefully, “If you refuse to cooperate, a replacement can be arranged with great ease.”

“A replacement?” Scaarbach wondered, almost certain it would somehow be worse than just going through with it.

Catwadder stood and glided over to him, there was a flash of green light and Scaarbach found himself staring into his own eyes, complete with the fresh scars over his brow and sorely neglected stubble on his jaw, “Uncanny, isn’t it?” she replied, her voice completely unchanged.

Scaarbach blinked. He was barely accustomed to seeing himself in a mirror but to see his own form, no his familiar’s form, to see it in such detail made him intensely and indescribably uncomfortable, “Please stop,” he begged, his words little more than a whisper.

“Very well,” Catwadder sighed, changing back to her original form, “Carry on, Gerbrander,” she waved her hand delicately as she glided back to her seat, “Gormlaith has requested I accompany her to the—” she paused, catching her words, “— _location_ , and it promises to be a positively _dull_ affair,” she patted her hair carefully, “At least there is something of mild interest here.”

“Quite,” Gerbrander agreed, gripping Scaarbach’s jaw tightly and yanking his mouth open, “Hmm, how did you lose the tooth?” he asked conversationally, casually using the glow from his eyes to illuminate the interior of Scaarbach’s mouth.

Scaarbach rolled his eyes, unable to talk, “Aigherbughtenen,” he mumbled.

Gerbrander smirked and removed his hands, “Sorry.”

“As I was _trying_ to say, sir,” Scaarbach frowned, “The master’s heirs beat me when I was a young changeling, insufferable brats,” he spat, “It took forever to save enough to repay Nufer for the gold tooth.”

Gerbrander nodded and scribbled in the two books he had lugged over to the cot, “Interesting, how did you get the money?”

“I stole it, sir,” Scaarbach replied matter-of-factly.

“Of course you did,” Gerbrander continued scribbling, “It’s quite unusual for a young changeling to find themselves in a position of wealth.”

“Unless the mission calls for it,” Catwadder added, “Such as Gormlaith was.”

Gerbrander’s expression softened, “A mission only asked of the best of us,” he sighed, his deep brown eyes filled with such tenderness and regret that Scaarbach wondered for a moment if he even had stone to lose.

Scaarbach was certain there was something behind their careful words, the phrasing perhaps masking a history that had fallen from common knowledge amongst the Order, “Do you know her secrets, sir?” he asked, expecting nothing but the most obtuse of replies.

The warmth fell from Gerbrander’s face, “How did you get those scars above your brow?” he asked icily.

Scaarbach shrugged, “Velima had very sharp claws.”

“I see,” Gerbrander replied, scribbling in the books.

Scaarbach endured the changeling’s poking and prodding, prolonged by his apparent need to write everything in duplicate. As an experience it wasn’t completely dreadful, although Scaarbach would have preferred not having to justify every scar and mark on his body to an audience. It was embarrassing to have to explain that the scar on his shin had come from being kicked by a frightened horse, which had only been frightened because Scaarbach had been young and terrified of accidentally outing himself as a changeling via contact with a gaggletack. It was only _after_ being kicked that he learned that gaggletacks and iron horseshoes weren’t mutually inclusive, although no one had ever explained exactly what kind of process was involved. Scaarbach assumed it was magic, or perhaps something to do with the purity of the iron or the manner of contact.

Gerbrander finished writing the final notes in his books and gently blew on the words to help the ink dry, “Very good,” he concluded.

“Are - are you done, sir?” Scaarbach hazarded, daring to hope.

Gerbrander put the books on his desk and returned, clasping his hands together, “Almost, if you would just stand for me?”

Scaarbach frowned, but did as he was told, wrapping the gown around himself tightly, “As you say, sir.”

Gerbrander came behind and held his arms behind his back, his grip far stronger than seemed humanly possible, “My dear Bodkin, if you’d do the honours?”

Somewhere out of his field of vision, Bodkin stood and rummaged, pulling out some unrecognisable object and approaching. Without a word, he pressed what seemed like an axe head against Scaarbach’s chest. Scaarbach yelled in pain and confusion, his form wrenched from his grip as he struggled.

“You could have just asked,” Scaarbach berated softly under his breath, pouting up at the two changelings who had suddenly come into comparatively sharp focus.

“And how would we have tested your reflexes then?” Gerbrander asked, releasing his grip.

Scaarbach spun around, “Do I - do I have to do it all again?” he bemoaned.

“I’m afraid so,” Gerbrander laughed, “And you’ve given me so much to work with, this might take some time.”

“How do you balance with just one horn?” Bodkin asked, “Surely you’d be better off to just file the other off and be done with it?”

Scaarbach touched his horn defensively, “No, I like my horn,” he lamented bitterly.

“Well, have you considered fashioning a prosthetic?” Bodkin asked, “There’s no shame in it.”

“I’m not a rich man, Mr. Bodkin,” Scaarbach replied bitterly.

“At least you have something to work towards,” Gerbrander mused, taping the uninjured side of Scaarbach’s face, “Interesting,” he said to himself, “I haven’t seen your kind of marble in —” he frowned, “— oh it must be two centuries now.”

“Who?” Scaarbach asked despite himself.

“I didn’t catch their name,” Gerbrander shrugged, “It was not a social mission.”

“They were pure?” Scaarbach wondered.

“Well,” Gerbrander made a magnanimous expression, “They were.”

“Did you kill them?” Scaarbach asked, trying desperately to not wonder if they were any relation.

“Me? No of course not,” Gerbrander chuckled, “Bular did the honours, of course.”

Scaarbach gasped like an awestruck whelp, “You worked with _Him_?”

“It was for but one mission,” Gerbrander replied dismissively, “He didn’t even learn my name.”

“But you saw him, with your own eyes you saw him,” Scaarbach gaped, “His very stone.”

Gerbrander gave him a curious but warm smile, “That is indeed true.”

“Did they—” Scaarbach asked, unable to stop himself, “— look like me at all?”

Gerbrander nodded his head gently several times, “They were… bigger than you, more eyes, more teeth—”

Scaarbach stared at him unamused, “You know what I meant.”

“Very well,” Gerbrander exhaled, “No, they looked nothing like you, other than sharing your stone, and we took no whelps that day, if that was going to be your follow up question.”

“Oh,” Scaarbach fell silent. A hope he had been pretending wasn’t there drifted away into nothingness and he was safe within himself once more.

“Your eye is blind, isn’t that right?” Gerbrander asked, waving his hand in front of Scaarbach’s face.

“It’s dead,” Scaarbach grimaced, “But the other is fine.”

“Most unfortunate,” Gerbrander patted him on the crown of his head in a manner that probably would’ve felt nice had it not hurt so much, “Open your mouth please, I’m going to count what fangs you have left.”

When the examination was over, Scaarbach returned to Gerbrander’s quarters, dragging the remains of his dignity behind him. He pawed about on the bed and finally found the clothes Bodkin had laid out for him. They weren’t fancy by any means, but even he could appreciate the fine craftsmanship and attention to detail. Scaarbach dressed in relative privacy and sighed, taking a moment before he returned to the others. What he had seen of the London headquarters wasn’t bad, but it promised to make for a paranoid few years. He had seen just enough of the needles that lay hidden within the sweet cakes to know he’d be unwise to relax within the walls of Castlemain house.

⁂

The gravel crunched underfoot as Bodkin led Scaarbach across the drive, walking nearly the full stretch of the front face of the house. Catwadder excused herself, walking in the direction of a vast mass of greenery with the air of a wealthy young woman on an afternoon stroll, and the two lesser changelings were left alone. Although they were still relatively close to London, close enough to be able to call themselves the London headquarters, the air was fresh and brisk. It still drizzled, a soft pathetic effort on the part of the sky ahead, the smell of wet lawn and horses were a refreshing palate cleanser to the stench of the cities he was used to.

On the far side of the house lay a cottage or barn, that upon closer inspection, seemed to blob in the general shape of a small chapel. Bodkin led him in and removed his coat, leaving it by the door. Scaarbach did the same and followed him deeper into the chapel and into what could only be describe as a kitchen as that was what it was. A man dressed in black stood there, bottle in hand, and grunted his greetings in English.

“Mr. Mathers,” Bodkin nodded, “I’ve brought the new chap, Mr. Bach. You’ve heard of him, don’t pretend you haven’t. He doesn’t speak English at all, I’m afraid.”

“The sinner,” Mathers concluded solemnly, “I’ve heard the rumours.”

Scaarbach averted his gaze, more than a little bit pleased with himself to be labelled ‘the sinner.’

“It’s bold of me I know, but are the rumours actually true?” Mathers asked, leaning on the kitchen counter in an anachronistically jaunty manner for a vicar.

“There are elements I can’t deny,” Scaarbach sighed, resigning himself to his fate.

“Wonderful!” Mathers exclaimed, “Nice to meet you, I am Mathers, ironically the vicar of this establishment.”

“Scaarbach,” Scaarbach replied cautiously, not sure what to expect of the changeling.

Mathers shook his hand vigorously, “I have to say I’m ardant admirer of your work,” at close range Scaarbach realised he was a rather plain man, in terms of human definition, with receding mousey hair and bulbous brown eyes, but his mouth curled in a way that betrayed a wicked sense of humour which made Scaarbach curious if they’d get along.

“I’m sorry?” Scaarbach breathed, having expected literally anything but that.

“Haven’t laughed that hard in months,” Mathers grinned, “Especially that part where you called the Dragon and Strix ‘hags’ and then they tried to kill you and you pissed yourself in front of everybody.”

“How did you hear about that?” Scaarbach wondered before the rest of the sentence filtered in through his ears, “I mean, what is with the Order and its puerile obsession with my fictitious bodily functions!” he yelled, all sense of cordiality escaping him in a puff of hot air.

Mathers laughed with a vulgar cruelty, “Aren’t we the delicate flower.”

Scaarbach moved to threaten the changeling but realised himself just in time, “I’m not delicate,” he muttered under his breath sourly.

“Ha - ha, of course you are,” Mathers insisted, “I can just _tell_.”

“Mathers, stop teasing the new chap, you devil,” Bodkin chided, “That’s _my_ job.”

Mathers chuckled approvingly, “You’re only fun when you’re alone, Sebastian.”

“I’m always fun, John,” Bodkin corrected, “And you’ll play nice with the new chap, he’s supposed to be on his best behaviour.”

Mathers turned his attention towards Scaarbach again, “Best behaviour, huh?” he encircled the changeling thoughtfully, “How incredibly dull,” he paused for a moment, “Would a glass of wine hurt, do you think, or will the Lady smite us where we stand?”

Bodkin sighed wearily, “Don’t get him drunk, Mathers, he just got here.”

“No changeling’s going to get drunk on a _single_ glass of wine,” Mathers rolled his eyes, “Do you like red… uh… Scaarbach?”

“It depends on the red,” Scaarbach said.

Mathers nodded approvingly, “This is—” he paused, pouring out three glasses, “— enough to pass the day,” he handed a glass to Bodkin first.

Bodkin delicately swirled the wine in the glass, “How thoughtful.”

Mathers handed the second glass to Scaarbach, “You’re welcome, my friend,” he replied, his attention almost entirely focused on Bodkin.

Scaarbach sniffed the wine, paranoid it was laced with something unpleasant, “What is this?”

“It’s a local vintage,” Mathers replied dryly, “Is it not good enough for you, my flower?”

Scaarbach frowned, “It’s more than _I_ could afford.”

“I wouldn’t worry yourself about debt, my friend,” Mathers laughed, “I never do.”

“A man of God shouldn’t be caught so thoughtless,” Bodkin added, a particular _sharpness_ to his words.

“When did you become so unfun, Sebastian?” Mathers asked.

“It was 1796,” Bodkin replied thoughtfully, “Tuesday the 23rd of August.”

Mathers leant forward, his exact expression a mystery to Scaarbach, “What happened then?” he wondered, his tone completely free of his usual bravado.

“You don’t remember?” Bodkin almost bristled, “I’d jog your memory but there are things that aren’t polite to do in company.”

Mathers laughed awkwardly, “You’re a special kind of trickster, my old friend,” he sat back, just enough in focus that Scaarbach could see the whiteness of his hands fumbling on his dark cuffs, “You however, you seem as though you’re going to be a lot of _fun_ ,” Mathers laughed.

“I’m not here to play games, sir,” Scaarbach replied.

“I know you’re not,” Mathers smirked, “But I am. Bodkin, did I ever tell you about my first friend?”

“I had no idea you had friends,” Bodkin said, his brow raised in his voice if not his face.

“It was before any of us were assigned names,” Mathers drew him forward like a shameless gossip, “Everyone used to call this one ‘Beetling’ and it was a horrid little thing. All broken marble and pathetic whimpers.”

“Broken marble?” Bodkin wondered.

Scaarbach felt a deep dread brewing somewhere in his belly.

“Oh yes, it had flung itself from a high place as a whelp, trying to escape the goblins or something of that nature,” Mathers muttered, “Tiny thing. I remember it only had one eye and horn to match, basically had half a dead face,” he waved his mostly empty glass of wine in front of one side of his face, “We used to train together for hours, it was so much _fun_.”

Scaarbach got a flash of a memory, a larger older changeling, torment, the dread growing. He tried desperately to pretend as though his heart weren’t trying to escape from fright, a blank expression to hide the wordless screaming in his mind.

“But this changeling was _the_ worst fighter of our generation, every proving it’d huddle up in the centre of the ground and just… take whatever you threw at it,” Mathers laughed, “It was so funny, the first time we got put together, it just stood in there looking up at me and—” he poured the remaining wine from his glass out onto the kitchen floor, “Classic Beetling.”

It took all his effort but Scaarbach managed to exhale normally, “What happened to your friend?” he asked carefully.

Mathers took a swig straight from the bottle, “Dead,” he chuckled, “But you remind me of how much fun we used to have. Funny how people can do that to you sometimes. Something about the eyes, I think.”

“Charming as ever, aren’t you John?” Bodkin sighed, “Come now, Mr. Bach, if we stay any longer he’ll regale us with even _more_ unpalatable tales.”

“Oh come now, Sebastian, I was just being friendly,” Mathers insisted.

Bodkin took the glass from Scaarbach’s hand, placing it on the kitchen table, “You know perfectly well you’re not allowed to be ‘friendly’ with our charge. I’ll bring Catwadder into it if I have to.”

Mathers tutted as Bodkin led Scaarbach out of the kitchen.

⁂

The walk back to Bodkin’s quarters was silent, the only sounds the sole’s of their shoes against the wet pebbles of the drive and the general bustle from the side entrance, as Scaarbach obediently followed the other changeling, his mind on other things. Of all the changelings he had expected to encounter, Mathers was not one of them. His memory of the Darklands was not strong, far too many memories that needed to stay buried. Yet what he did remember was that Mathers had been vicious in their youth, older than him, stronger by far. A smart whelp learned to do _anything_ to avoid him. There was no doubt in his mind that if the changeling learned who Scaarbach truly was, that Mathers would make Živný look as threatening as a soft eight week old kitten.

“Take a seat,” Bodkin prompted, gesturing to the chaise longue in what amounted to his living area.

Scaarbach did as he was told, his mind still miles away.

“I understand this might be an intrusive question, but it’s one I simply _must_ ask,” Bodkin continued, sitting next to him, “Did you want Mathers to know who you are?”

Scaarbach turned to stare at him, absolutely horrified at the thought, “No!”

“That’s quite unfortunate,” Bodkin straightened out his collars primly, “If someone who has seen your true form, precisely one such as myself, were to merely _describe_ your stone, well I’m sure even Mathers would be able to figure out your true identity in no time at all,” he spoke the words so cleanly, as sharp as a dagger gleaming in the light of day.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Scaarbach hoped against hope, “What about the first rule? Honour is important!”

“What of the second?” Bodkin replied, brow raised.

“Please!” Scaarbach racked his mind, trying to find a solution, “What about the third? I could offer you a cut from my salary!” It was an arguably foolish suggestion, but if he were dead, he’d have no use of a salary regardless.

Bodkin made a show of considering his offer, “Eighty percent.”

“Sixty,” Scaarbach said.

“Seventy three percent,” Bodkin replied, a bright and mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“Why seventy three?” Scaarbach wondered, distracted by the odd number.

“Why is irrelevant,” Bodkin scoffed, “Either take it or I won’t be to blame if Mathers stumbles upon your little secret.”

Scaarbach thought for a moment, feeling as though he had been backed into a very unfair situation, “Very well,” he sighed, “Mr. Bodin,” he added, lacing in as much spite and resentment as he dared.

Bodkin beamed at him with entrepreneurial glee, “I’ll get out my personal ledger and we can keep it official,” he stood and turned to look back down at Scaarbach, “We want to be sure you get your full twenty seven percent cut, after all.”

⁂

Scaarbach sat in the lesser dining hall of Castlemain House, uncomfortable in the ill-fitting evening wear Bodkin had loaned him for the occassion. All the changelings in the house had gathered that evening for supper, all be it without the knowledge of the humans, and they sat at the long table, arranged by order of rank. At the head of the table sat Lord Bertram Warburton of Waddingham and Lord Francis Sinclair of Dunaid, flanked on either side by the true powers at the table, their wives Lady Gormlaith Sinclair née Dunaid and Lady Catherine Warburton née Waddingham. Scaarbach was naturally sat at the far end of the table with Bodkin and Mathers. The dining arrangement at the Berlin headquarters was not so dissimilar, although he was unused to the polite conversation that the others seemed to take as the norm.

“Your name is Scaarbach, is it not?” a changeling asked to his left.

Scaarbach nodded, “That’s right, ma’am,” he said.

“My name is Annapeda, I just arrived this morning from the south of Spain,” Annapeda replied.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” Scaarbach said.

“You are from Berlin, is that not right?” Annapeda asked.

“The Citadel of Bones, yes,” Scaarbach could feel everyone’s gaze, just waiting for him to make a mistake.

“How do you like here at Castlemain House?”

Scaarbach considered his day, the sleepless night, the long parade of intimidation, poked and prodded, a bitter enemy to his side and his pockets emptier for it, “The weather could have been worse,” he conceded with a hollow chuckle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, 'Beetling' is intended as a diminutive of beetle, although it's thematically appropriate in English considering the word's other meanings.


	17. Woes of the English

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scaarbach struggles to adjust to his new life as he studies to become a passable tailor. It’s boring and he finds himself longing for adventure, but fortunately Bodkin might have something that’s just as good.
> 
> CW: Orphans, Child Labour, References to Arson, Job Dissatisfaction, the English Language

It was Sunday morning and the entire household had gathered for mass in the little chapel nestled by Castlemain House. Scaarbach sat at the back of the aisles with Bodkin and his accoutrement of children. He had seen them once or twice before but hadn’t cared to learn their names. At the front of the aisles, Lord Bertram Warburton of Waddingham and Lord Francis Sinclair of Dunaid sat with their wives, presumably dressed in the latest fashions. They all listened to the Vicar as he droned away in his monotonous English chastisements and echoing condemnations.

Scaarbach couldn’t understand a word of it, but that didn’t matter. He stared out into the hazy distance, his head held high, his back straight as an arrow, determined not to show any signs of weakness. He mumbled his way through songs he didn’t know, constantly on guard. After what had felt to be five hours, the household visibly relaxed and Scaarbach realised it must have been over.

Bodkin stood by the entrance of the chapel, fixing the cuffs of his sleeve absently. Scaarbach loitered around him, not really knowing what else to do with himself as Bodkin’s children played with the other children of the house. To his annoyance a young woman approached him and attempted to start up a conversation.

“I am sorry, young lady, but I cannot understand you,” Scaarbach waved his hand in front of himself as though the gesture would transcend words.

The young woman nodded understandingly, “Sally Baker,” she said, gesturing to herself.

Scaarbach exhaled, “Ottokar Bach,” he said, trying to bow in a polite but not patronising manner.

Sally giggled and said something in English, smoothing out her grey and blue striped dress and patting the white cap on her head. Bodkin said something in reply, and they spoke for a moment before she turned and left. The soles of her shoes crunched on the wet pebbles underfoot.

“Should I know her?” Scaarbach whispered behind his hand.

“You’ll know her in time,” Bodkin replied, “She is the second eldest in my care, and the youngest is her brother.”

Scaarbach thought he remembered the young boy, no older than three, who had lost patience during the service and hadn’t quite understood he wasn’t allowed to leave. He had assumed the young woman he pawed at had been his mother, but up close, young Sally had seemed no older than fifteen.

“Do you collect orphans for their tiny hands, Mr. Bodkin?” Scaarbach asked, half joking.

“I teach them how to read and write, give them skills and a reason to live,” Bodkin shrugged, “As my eldest I thought you had already realised.”

“I’m not your—” Scaarbach paused, narrowing his eyes, “I mean I’m not an—” he paused again, “I’m older than you,” he grumbled.

Bodkin chuckled, “And yet your hands are not much larger than mine.”

⁂

It had not taken Scaarbach long to come to the conclusion that he detested sewing. The yarn was impossible to thread into the miniature eye of the needle, and even more impossible to find if he dropped it. He spent his days cooped up in Bodkin’s quarters, often alone, left to fumble through even the most basic of stitches. When he wasn’t hunched over his pathetic excuse of a sampler, he was expected to practice his English. Despite his ignorance on the subject, he found that at least the basic vocabulary was reasonably within his grasp. On the few occasions Bodkin could spare his full attention, the two often went over both subjects simultaneously.

The evening was still relatively young, but the two changelings had eaten their final meals of the day and retired to cram in some last minute studying before bed. Scaarbach sat hunched over in the worn chaise longue, his eyes aflame to compensate for the dim of the candles as he pricked his fingers with every stitch. He was tired, but stubborn, and he wasn’t going to beg to be allowed to retire to bed early like a weak little child. He was never going to admit weakness to the other changeling, especially one who blackmailed him out of what meagre income he could possibly earn in the house. Bodkin sat across from him at his writing desk, faced towards him with his handwritten book of English lessons open on his lap and flask of his precious whiskey in his free hand.

“Eye,” Bodkin said absently.

“That means I, yes?” Scaarbach asked.

“Try again,” Bodkin said.

“Egg?” Scaarbach hazarded, “In German ‘Ei’ is egg, Mr. Bodkin.”

“In English ‘eye’ is eye,” Bodkin explained.

“Eye,” Scaarbach repeated.

“Very good,” Bodkin sniffed, “Mouth,” he continued.

Scaarbach had to think for a minute, “Murder?”

Bodkin chuckled, “You eat with it.”

“Mouth?” Scaarbach asked, “It has to be mouth.”

“Correct,” Bodkin agreed, “Murder is ‘murder’ or sometimes ‘slaughter,’ there are many words for the crime.”

“How do you say, ‘I hate sewing,’ Mr Bodkin?” Scaarbach exhaled, trying and failing to land the needle in the correct spot of linen.

“You don’t hate sewing,” Bodkin scoffed, “You just hate failure,” it was hard to argue, “I hate sewing,” he offered.

Scaarbach grimaced at the tiny hoop of torture, “I hate sewing,” he repeated.

⁂

Winter loomed in the damp air as December fell upon Castlemain House, but in comparison to the year earlier it felt as mild as late Spring. Still, Scaarbach would have been lying were he to say he were enjoying his time at the London Headquarters of the Janus Order. Scaarbach had never formally received an education, at least in the human world. In the Darklands he had been taught the essentials by older changelings, changelings waiting to be assigned a familiar, or the precious few elders who had been trapped after the fated Battle of Killahead Bridge. There he had learned to read and write, do basic sums and codes, battle tactics and rules of espionage, and generally what to expect on the surface world. These lessons were highly competitive, but had been taught in the manner of a malicious elder sibling begrudged to perform the task under sufferance alone. They had been chaos.

And then, when he had finally ascended to the human world, there had been nothing. He learned German on the field with the peers of his familiar’s generation, but despite being behind by several months of exposure, in their ignorance had quickly earned the reputation of being slow by his host family. And as his host family had been poor, they had chosen to send their child out to work rather than waste any precious resources on an education. He had had no idea the mind-melting frustrations Castlemain House expected him to endure.

His routine was simple. He’d wake up with the men, dress, and then head off to Bodkin’s quarters. There Bodkin would give him his studies for the day, before leaving for his other duties. Scaarbach would then get to work with Bodkin’s little German clock his only companion. At exactly a quarter to nine, he would fight the urge to take advantage of his precious solitude and sneak a nap, but fear of reprimand would always win over. At exactly a quarter to ten he would breakfast alone in his little nook, or sometimes with Bodkin and the children. He would then return to work and wouldn’t see another soul until Bodkin returned between three and five to ensure Scaarbach was on the right track, correcting any waiting mistakes or questions, and assigning new work were he lucky enough to have finished.

In the evening he would be escorted to supper where he’d be given something simple but warm to eat in his quiet nook, before heading back to finish his evenings with Bodkin and his lessons. Eventually the bell would ring, instructing the lower levels that it was time to head off to bed. He’d slink off, undress, slip into his cot for the night, and stare at the ceiling miserably, failing to get much sleep at all. On Tuesdays he’d be expected to bathe. On Sundays he’d be expected to attend mass, after which the children would be allowed to run wild and free, and the adults would stand around gossiping before heading back to their duties. On Sunday evenings he was given time off to pen his reports to Berlin, a task he learned to drag out for as long as possible.

On special occasions he’d be allowed to eat a proper supper in the secondary dining hall with the other changelings, but otherwise everyday was the same. Monotonous, wearisome, and delicately infused with the humiliation of failure as fine as Bodkin’s expert stitches. He endured the days longing desperately for bed, but when it came, he was denied even the simplest pleasure of restful sleep. To him it was like a constant drip of water upon ones head as he slowly, but surely, succumbed to thirst.

Scaarbach lay on his cot, unsure as to the time but positive it had to have been after midnight at least. He couldn’t sleep. He could never sleep. The snoring he had almost become accustomed to, but not the multitude of humans, all huddled in their cots, so close their beds nearly touched. Across from him one of the younger boys coughed. Scaarbach wasn’t sure what duties the boy held, or even what his name was, but he was not one of Bodkin’s.

It was the damp, Scaarbach assumed. The damp had a way of getting into human lungs. And the boy was little, scrawny, and withdrawn. Much like he had been at that age, except without the protection of changeling fortitude. Scaarbach was not, as he had learned, inclined towards the murder of children, but with that persistent cough he wanted to make an exception. He wondered if there were secret nooks around the house that he could use to make a nest of his own. It was an idle dream, but in Castlemain House, idleness was all he had.

⁂

His breath caught in his throat and he gulped airlessly, scrambling to sit up as his heart raced wildly to escape. It took several deep breaths before Scaarbach realised he had awoken from a nightmare, and several more before he noticed the small child standing by his bedside, watching him in impassive interest. His mind clambered through his exceedingly limited English to find the right words to tell the boy off.

“Naughty boy!” Scaarbach hissed, “Go back to bed!” he paused, realising the words that had slipped out had been German, “Ach, I’m too tired for this,” he muttered.

If it were not for the fact he had awoken, he would’ve sworn he hadn’t slept at all. The child flinched in the darkness and disappeared as silently as he had appeared. Sheepishly, Scaarbach snuggled back down into his cot, mortified to have been caught out by a human at a vulnerable moment. He stared ahead blankly, numb from the combination of exhaustion and sleep, a state as close to bliss as he had any hope to reach. Hours passed, or perhaps minutes, but the morning bell rang and he and the men rose, ready for another day’s work. He dressed unceremoniously in the dim light of the dormitory, carefully avoiding the attention of everyone, but especially that of whichever boy had caught him in his anxieties earlier.

Scaarbach rapped on the door to Bodkin’s quarters, his eyes heavy, and his interest low. The door remained closed. With a tentative push he discovered the room that amounted to his living area and office had been left empty, and wondered for a moment if he could be bothered to track the changeling down at all. He came to the conclusion he didn’t have the patience to sit around doing nothing and tried to think of where Bodkin could possibly have been hiding. Scaarbach followed the wall around the corner, mentally leaving a trail as he went, and counted the doors as he passed them. On the fifth door he stopped, rapping politely on the frame, and was greeted by young Sally Baker with her little brother on her hip.

“Good morning Mr. Bach!” Sally beamed, following with a stream of words too fast for him to follow.

“Good morning Miss Baker,” Scaarbach echoed, thankful he could recall her name at least, “I ah… see… to… Mr. Bodkin?”

The young woman nodded and gestured into the haze of the room, “Very good,” she said, “Mr. Bodkin, your German is here!”

“Ah!” Bodkin exclaimed from somewhere in the distance, “Good morning, good chap! Were you trying to say, ‘I am looking for Mr. Bodkin?’ perhaps?”

Scaarbach stared impassively in his direction, “I have no idea.”

“I’m taking the children with me to the library for their lessons today,” Bodkin explained, “You’re coming too, it will be a good chance to introduce you to the group.”

“Ah, wonderful,” Scaarbach said, not at all liking the prospect of being surrounded by even more humans for the day.

“You don’t need to sound so enthusiastic, good chap,” Bodkin chuckled, approaching him from the haze, “I thought you’d appreciate the break from your samplers.”

“Oh!” Scaarbach’s brow rose at the glorious prospect.

“And the children are all good kids,” Bodkin continued, absently retying Scaarbach’s cravat until it met his approval, “The only one you really need to watch out for is young Susan.”

“What’s wrong with Susan?” Scaarbach asked, resigning himself to the tailor’s fussing.

Bodkin leant forward, speaking behind a raised hand, “She starts fires,” he whispered.

“Ah,” Scaarbach decided the children couldn’t be all bad.

⁂

Castlemain House was a lot of different things, to a lot of different people, but at its heart it boasted a library so grand it would make a university overcome with lustful desires. Rooms upon rooms were stashed with books of every available language and source, some kept openly within the gaze of humans, but many others stashed away in secret, hidden tomes of unimaginable power. The top floor of the house stored the archives of the Order, boxes upon boxes of records and intrigue, well guarded from any humans who might have threatened their security. Scaarbach had never seen them himself, but he had certainly heard of them. All changelings knew of the archives, and by extension the library as a whole.

Every headquarter and every base were given codenames to use in correspondence. The Berlin Headquarters was known as ‘The Citadel of Bones,’ in reference to its location in forgotten medieval catacombs deep within the bowels of the city. And in London, the headquarters were known as ‘The Library of Alexandria.’ As Scaarbach gazed up at the towering shelves that stretched throughout the great hall, he could feel the sheer power that radiated from each book, scroll and tome. The knowledge, the history, the intrigue, it was the true indication of the Order’s influence, and its loss would be a loss for humans as well as changeling kind.

Bodkin arranged for his small class to gather around a particularly grand table in the centre of the hall, and they sat huddled around each other with their leads in their hands, waiting for the morning’s lesson to begin.

“This is Sally, you’ve met her of course,” Bodkin said, gesturing in her direction, “And young Billy,” he moved on to the following human, “Next to her are Elsie, Lottie, and Susan.”

Scaarbach made a point of trying to remember who was who, if only to keep an eye on young Susan and her affinity with fires, “I see,” he said, noting she had distinct blonde hair, an easy detail to remember.

“To your side, there are young Wesley, Dave, and Jessie,” Bodkin continued, “Wesley is formally my apprentice, but the others are receiving the same education.”

Scaarbach nodded, pretending to care about the children and their education if only for the sake of basic politeness, “I see, and who is the one hiding under the table?”

“Oh, that’s Mary, she hasn’t been broken in yet,” Bodkin waved his hand dismissively, “She joined us not two months before yourself.”

“And what was she doing before that?” Scaarbach tried to peer at the child under the table.

“Being orphaned I’m afraid,” Bodkin replied, “But she’ll settle eventually, five just happens to be a particularly bad time to lose one’s parents like that.”

The lesson began with a round of introductory mathematics, at least for the human children with the leads in their hands they clutched so earnestly. As the children squinted and scrawled their numbers, occasionally referring to one another when Bodkin wasn’t looking, Scaarbach was given an illustrated book of fauna to copy out by hand. Had he been foolish enough to consider stealing from the Order, Scaarbach estimated that to the right buyer, he could fetch enough money to set himself up comfortably for at least fifty years. It was old, and included creatures both fantastical and mundane. This was a blessing as it leant itself somewhat to entertainment, and provided an intellectual challenge as he tried to figure out what some of the illustrations even represented in the first place. Had it not been for the fact that Behemoth was the same in German as it was in English, he potentially would have been stuck on it for hours.

⁂

In a welcome break, he took breakfast in alone in his nook. Caught in a flight of fancy, Scaarbach stared down at his daily allowance of bread and porridge, dreaming wistfully of the kind of sausage that would make a butcher weep tears of pride and joy. The dream fizzled away bitterly when he remembered that Kozlóv’s human face was that of a butcher. Scaarbach cursed that there was nothing the changeling hadn’t ruined for him, sulkily finishing off his breakfast as he muttered under his breath. He returned to the kitchens to hand over his bowl and spoon, awkwardly thanked the staff for the meal, and trudged up the stairs once again and headed back to the great library.

It wasn’t long after his return that Scaarbach finished his task, child’s work as it was. His attentions caught on young Mary, Bodkin instructed him to find another book in English and to write down at least five pages. Scaarbach wandered further and further away from Bodkin and his children, drawn by the intoxicating allure of increasingly obscure books. He picked them up absently, flicking through the pages with the manner of a bored nobleman, and then carefully placed them back.

He turned a corner, following the bookcases as they lined the hall, and found a smaller room. With a hand placed on the shelf by his hip, he traced the length of the room, taking in the smell of musty, ageing antiquities, turning once he got to the end and heading back the way he had come. By chance his eye caught something dark left haphazardly between two lionesque bookends, and he stood on tiptoes to get a better look at what it was. To his surprise it was a perfectly good violin, tucked up helpfully with its bow, although wanting for anything in the way of case or cover. His fingers waggled eagerly at the mere thought of indulgence, and before he knew it he had peered over his shoulder and guiltily snatched it down.

He played a round of scales. Off-key. He sighed and fiddled with the pegs, adjusting it back in tune. Scaarbach looked around again, paranoid someone was going to storm in and tell him to put it down, but there was no one. Or at least, no one he could see. Before he could stop himself, he was already playing a familiar tune, one he could play in his sleep. It was one Magno had taught him on one of his many visits, a rough rural ditty perfect to play to increasingly drunken crowds. He stopped. No, he thought to himself, he was in a library. He chewed his lip for a second and then had an idea. Scaarbach took the instrument with him as he tried to trace his steps back to a place where he was sure he had seen sheet music bundled together. He found them sat out on a side table, casually bound in a bright red leather cover, and tucked them under his arm.

Back in the violin nook, Scaarbach flicked through the selection of various pieces, looking for something appropriate for both a violin and the setting. Eventually he found a Violin Concerto in E Major, invariably Bach. The name Kitty was written in obscenely florid handwriting in the top right hand corner, accompanied by a small doodle of a harpy. He propped a sheet up using a book as a stand, and tried to memorise the piece. It was not one he had not played before, and so he was hopeful he wouldn’t make a complete fool of himself. Yet as he stood, instrument ready to go, bow poised above the strings, he couldn’t see the black from the bone white of the page.

He exhaled, edging closer, squinting into his mind’s eye, and began. It was a confident start, followed immediately by a blunder, but he had not earned his daily bread for all those years faltering behind a slipped note or misremembered bar. He carried on as though nothing had happened, losing himself to the music until the soft melody flowed out of him like the call of an apologetic songbird.

Somewhere in the back of Scaarbach’s head, something registered as having been heard. He couldn’t quite pin down what it had been, and he softened his playing, straining his ears to see if he had imagined it. Something fell behind him and he nearly flung the poor violin into the air from the sheer guilt of being sprung. He spun around, quick to put the sorry thing on the nearest surface, searching desperately for what it had been.

Scaarbach stepped further into the room, towards the half drawn window that had been the primary source of light, and realised, to his absolute horror, that a figure lay reclined on a chaise longue. From his position on the other side of the room, the figure would have been entirely out of his field of vision thanks to a particular high bookcase stacked floor to ceiling with its dusty, old books. Tentatively he approached, not entirely sure if the figure was awake. It was a man, middle aged, dressed in a manner that while romantic and suiting his silvering curls, would have seemed sloppy had Scaarbach even thought to imitate. Overcome by curiosity Scaarbach bent over, hoping to recognise _something_ about the man.

His eyes flashed open, and an intoxicating smile spread across his features as mischievous as a man half his age, “Hullo,” he said.

Scaarbach jumped back, bowing several times over just in case, not daring to say a word.

“You’re the German, right?” the man asked, his Scottish accent in German frankly bizarre to Scaarbach’s ears.

“How did you know—” Scaarbach panicked, wondering what title would be the most appropriate, “— sir?”

The man pulled himself up sleepily, “My wife told me of course, Lady Gormlaith,” his hand attempted to run through his curls, tucking at a knot as it almost immediately became stuck, “You don’t remember me?”

Scaarbach had little patience with human orders of command, but his entire life’s experience screamed at him that he was not supposed to be speaking to the man at all, “Forgive me sir, I didn’t know, I - I —” he stammered helplessly, “I cannot see—”

Lord Francis Sinclair of Dunaid nodded sombrely, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I will leave immediately,” Scaarbach bowed deeply, “I am sorry to have disturbed you.”

“No wait,” Lord Francis insisted, his tone somehow pleading and… soft, “Keep playing, would you? Because I ask you to?”

Scaarbach stared at the man, absolutely stunned for a moment before he came to his senses and scrambled for the violin. His hands nearly trembling, he resumed as quickly as possible. But it was not the same as before, he could not lose himself to the melody, his mind was too busy caught on the brash nobleman who seemed to have no idea what he was asking. Scaarbach gulped, recalling his smile, eyes wide with the realisation of the trouble he could get into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know not all of my readers are reading on the desktop, so I hope it's clear that English, Changeling, _and_ German is being spoken in this chapter.


	18. Conspicuous Consumption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the beginning of a new year and illness has befallen Castlemain House. The following day Scaarbach joins the changelings Bodkin and Rowlanda on their trip into the heart of London and meets a eccentric hatter who smells strongly of glue.
> 
> CW: Poor Working Conditions, Disease, Death from Disease, Blood as a Symptom

Winter dragged on into February and Scaarbach had well and truly lost what little novelty Castlemain House had to offer. He lay in his cot at night, itchy from the soap he had used the morning earlier, silently pleading for the Pale Lady to grant him some form of respite. The humans, his duties, the monotony, his isolation, everything was weighing on him and he wanted an escape. Yet none came, as none came for his Lady. The boy with the cough seemed to be getting worse, and he was up and down to the lavatory all night. The other humans didn’t seem to care, ignoring him or perhaps too exhausted from their own duties to notice the child. It annoyed Scaarbach. It was the coughing mostly, the constant back and forth through their dormitory. It was hard enough to sleep as it was. In one way or another it had to come to an end.

Impatience wearing on him, Scaarbach climbed out of his cot, covering himself with his threadbare woollen coat, and headed off in the direction of the lavatory. He paced up and down the hall, fussing with his hands trying to think of a single place he could get genuine peace and quiet. He leant against the wall, his face in his hands, far too exhausted to be able to think of a single location. There was the sound of soft footsteps and a deep rattling cough. The young boy walked a short distance in the darkness, lit by the single lantern on the other end of the hall, pausing only to wipe his face on his sleeve. Scaarbach growled under his breath and the boy jumped back, startled by the noise.

“Come,” Scaarbach demanded, using as authoritative of a voice as he could muster.

The boy sniffed and approached him sorrowfully, “Yes sir,” he said.

“Come,” Scaarbach repeated, grabbing the boy by the crook of his thin arm and withdrew almost immediately at the slimy wetness that met him. He paused, disgusted and tired, and grabbed the boy by his hand.

Ignoring the boy’s protestations, Scaarbach dragged him forcefully up the stairs and down the hall to Dr. Tulp’s surgery. He knocked on the door angrily with his free hand, still gripping the boy tightly. He continued rapping on the wood, determined to get the boy to sleep somewhere else if only for the night. Something fell over on the other side of the door and Scaarbach could hear the hushed whispers of the doctor and someone else. The door opened and Gerbrander mumbled something in incomprehensible English, still shrugging a banyan over his nightgown.

“This child is sick,” Scaarbach said loudly, talking over the coughing boy.

“Couldn’t it wait until morning?” Gerbrander yawned, “It just sounds like a cough.”

“Look at him,” Scaarbach insisted.

Gerbrander sighed, closing the door in front of him. Scaarbach returned to rapping on the door, furious the other changeling would shut the door on his face like that.  
The door opened again and Scaarbach was momentarily blinded by the light of the candle Gerbrander wove in his face.

“Calm down,” Gerbrander yawned again before his expression froze, “Why didn’t you say there was blood?”

Scaarbach released the boy to gesture with both of his hands in his exasperation, “Sick. Boy is sick.”

Gerbrander shone the candle over the boy, illuminating his bloody sleeve. He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and said something softly in English. The boy hung his head, mumbling something in return. He sniffed, visibly fighting back tears.

“Gormlot is going to be furious,” Gerbrander said, his face drawn in the dancing light of the candle, “Last time this happened we lost seven in a year.”

“Yes, I know how humans work,” Scaarbach exhaled, wanting for nothing more than to be able to return to a quiet spot and sleep.

“It was good of you to bring the child to me,” Gerbrander said, “I didn’t think you were the type.”

Scaarbach looked at him with the weariness of countless ill-slept nights, “It had to be done.”

Gerbrander nodded sagely and looked down at the boy, “I can take things from here,” he yawned again, “Sleep well, Mr. Bach.”

“Yes,” Scaarbach returned, mirroring his yawn, “Sleep well, Mr. Tulp.”

“Doctor,” Gerbrander corrected, escorting the small boy into his surgery, “I am a doctor.”

The door closed in Scaarbach’s face once again, and he deflated with sheer relief. He took a moment to close his eyes, resting his forehead gently on the painted wood of the door frame, wanting desperately to fall asleep right then and there. He entertained the thought of curling up right there on the floor but dismissed it at the prospect of Gerbrander, Bodkin, or even Bovisi stumbling upon him by sunrise. Sleepily he padded back down the stairs, stopping at the little nook he often took his breakfast in, a curtained secret hidden away from human eyes. It was enticing. And he was tired. He spun a circle, paranoid he was being watched. There seemed to be no one. He slipped under the curtain and wrapped the tablecloth around him, curling up and using the small table as a bed of sorts. He closed his eyes, alone, unwatched, cold but blessedly safe. It was enough.

⁂

In his slumber, Scaarbach dreamt of his youth on the surface, the stables, his master’s expansive house in the Westphalian countryside. It had been a lonely life, and had been eager to leave it as soon as the Order would allow. He had quickly learned that humans were every bit as bad as he expected, treasuring every moment he had to himself. His dreams were filled with futile tasks, malicious blobs, mirthless laughter, and the smell of horses.

There was a noise and every muscle in Scaarbach’s body tensed at once, he flew back and fell onto the ground with a crash, bringing his makeshift bed with him. He rubbed his eyes and looked up at the man who could only have been Bodkin chuckling down at him.

“So that’s where you were hiding,” Bodkin laughed, helping Scaarbach pull the table back into the upright position, “Sleep well, my good chap?”

Scaarbach pouted, “What time is it?”

“It’s time to get dressed, we have an errand to run with Mrs. Rowland this morning,” Bodkin explained.

“Ach, I forgot,” Scaarbach groaned.

“It was the boy, I expect,” Bodkin said, “It was very good of you to sleep away from the others, Gerbrander is going to want all of this,” he gestured at Scaarbach’s undershirt and coat, and the tablecloth and curtain.

“You heard about that?” Scaarbach mumbled.

Bodkin made a curious expression, “Well,” he coughed awkwardly, “Sometimes I bring Gerbrander a nice hot tea and early breakfast in the morning,” he clapped his hands, as though closing the book on the subject, “Come with me, you’ll need to dress fancy today.”

“Do _I_ get a nice hot tea and early breakfast?” Scaarbach asked mournfully, strongly suspecting he would not.

Bodkin waved a hand dismissively, “You can grab some bread on our way out, there’s no time to dawdle, just tell them it’s for Mrs. Rowland.”

⁂

Ducking into the kitchen to beg some bread from the cook, Scaarbach tugged at his uncomfortably high starched collar. The cook, Mrs. Anne Cartwright, was a permanently busy woman and she had no time to stand around trying to understand Scaarbach’s awkward fumblings into English inquiry as she prepared breakfast for those who waited upstairs. In the end a younger kitchen hand had handed him a small bun sweetened with the thinnest imaginable drizzling of honey and shooed him out of the kitchen.

He made his way out of the side entrance and trudged towards the dark blob in the distance he assumed could have only been their awaiting carriage. As he grew closer one of the blobs revealed itself to be the silhouettes of two individuals, one dressed with a dark blue cape, the other a bright red spencer. Three attendants encircled the horses, making some last minute adjustments to their tacks.

“Could you have walked any slower?” Rowlanda moaned impatiently.

Scaarbach bowed curtly, “I’ll try to be taller next time, Mrs. Rowland.”

The one in the dark blue cape laughed sharply, “Very good,” Bodkin chuckled, “We’ll be off then, shall we?”

The driver bowed towards the three changelings and opened the carriage door, helping them in their seats without a word. Scaarbach watched through the small window the superfluous attendants scatter, leaving the driver to disappear behind him, taking his seat. Hungry as he was, Scaarbach didn’t waste any time pulling out the bun he had secreted into his fancy woolen coat, unwrapping it from his plain handkerchief and laying it out on his lap to catch any wayward crumbs. There was a lurch and the carriage started to move. They were off.

“Young Sebastian was telling me about the consumptive boy,” Rowlanda said.

“I’m sure Gerbrander is pleased to have a new pet,” Scaarbach replied, carefully folding his handkerchief and placing it back into his pocket.

Bodkin snorted, “One might expect.”

“Do you suppose we’re going to be lacking in staff again?” Rowlanda wondered, “It would be most inconvenient.”

“I just hope he hasn’t infected _my_ children,” Bodkin sighed, “The youngest isn’t even four years old.”

Rowlanda shook her head, “Humans are so soft and weak, some things cannot be helped.”

⁂

Scaarbach trailed behind the other two changelings, careful not to step too far behind but mindful he’d be lost without them. The red and dark blue blobs mingled with the humans who bustled past on the streets, their steps the perfect example of elegant haste. Bodkin stopped at a shop entrance, clearing his throat noisily. It was a moment before Scaarbach realised he was expected to open the door and scrambled to oblige.

Thinking nothing of it, Scaarbach followed the two inside, but realised his mistake when the other patrons froze. Although his vision couldn’t offer much in the way of detail, the piles of folded fabric, silk flowers and ribbons, betrayed he had just entered into a particular expensive modiste’s shop front. He smiled awkwardly, not sure where to look and resolved to be incredibly distracted by a sample of shimmery blue silk. Further into the displays, Bodkin spoke with a woman Scaarbach could only assume was the lady in charge, his English fast and thick, almost a parody than the real thing. Something was exchanged, although what, Scaarbach couldn’t be certain, and Bodkin left the store with his head held high, Rowlanda following in turn. Scaarbach hurried to open the door, doing so wordlessly and with a curt little nod.

They continued down the road, turning into a side street and a store that turned out to be a milliner’s. The air inside was thick with an unpleasant chemical smell, fresh dyes, possibly formaldehyde, definitely glue, but it was infinitely more palatable than what met them elsewhere in the city. Bodkin chatted with the nervous man, gesturing at Scaarbach and Rowlanda, no doubt making jokes. To his surprise the man approached Scaarbach, his trembling hand outstretched, flinching as Scaarbach took it.

“My name is Mr. Blevins,” Mr. Blevins mumbled, avoiding eye contact as though his very life depended on it.

“Herr Bach,” Scaarbach replied, not entirely sure what to make of the man.

“Nathaniel is loyal to the Order,” Bodkin explained, not even bothering to hush his tone, “Although he doesn’t know it.”

Scaarbach nodded understandingly, “I uh… the word is… yes! _Pleasure_ to meet you, Mr. Blevins.”

The milliner bowed curtly, “How may I be of service, Mr. Bach?”

“I… am unsure,” Scaarbach turned to Bodkin and Rowlanda, awaiting explanation.

Bodkin smiled, and said something to Mr. Blevins Scaarbach couldn’t catch.

“So I can understand, Mr. Bodkin,” Scaarbach exhaled, impatient with his English.

“I asked dear Nathaniel to show you around his shop,” Bodkin explained, “You don’t mind, do you dear chap?”

Mr. Blevins shook his head sheepishly, “Your… friends… are always welcome, Mr. Bodkin,” he made a visibly pained expression, his cheeks flushing an uneven, blotchy glow.

I’ll leave you three to become acquainted—” Mr. Bodkin exhaled sharply, and made a single, elegant gesture, “— but I’m afraid I have an errand to run not far from here. I won’t take too long, I promise,” he patted his pockets absently and left before the others could say a single word in protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something something erethism something because of course I had to.


	19. Rule Number One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bodkin is missing but all is not lost as Scaarbach tries to make the best of a difficult situation and earns the respect of other changelings in the Order. Later a message comes to him from the other side of the world but it’s not who he thinks.
> 
> CW: Violence, Death, Murder, Xenophobia, Anti-Irish Bigotry, Very Softly Implied Transphobia, Blackmail Referenced

Rowlanda and Scaarbach exchanged glances as Mr. Blevins dragged them around his shop, opening boxes with crisp new hats and bonnets, showing off his life’s work of which he seemed immensely proud. It wasn’t an altogether unpleasant experience but the shop front itself had only five minutes of mild intrigue, however Mr. Blevins seemed determined to drag it out to a full hour. Scaarbach thought he could sketch out his trembling yet expansive hand gestures from memory alone.

“— and that is about it for the front, I’m afraid,” Mr. Blevins admittedly mournfully, “So if you will just follow me around the back—”

Rowlanda tried to get them gracefully out of it, “Oh there’s really no——”

“Abigail!” Mr. Blevins said as loudly as he possibly could, which in his case was barely louder than his excited ramblings, “Put on a pot of tea, we have guests!”

Abigail, much to Scaarbach’s surprise, turned out to be Mr. Blevins wife. She was a round woman of a certain age, and had rosy cheeks and greying frizzy red hair under her simple cap. She poured them both a cup of the most watery tea Scaarbach had ever tasted, and they sat around the kitchen table as Mr. Blevins fussed about for something sweet for them to eat, and presented them with something they called ‘short bread’ although it was closer to hard-tack than anything from a _real_ bakery. It was hard to say, but it felt as though another hour had passed them by like a snail on a garden path.

Scaarbach waited for a moment when Mr. Blevins wasn’t looking and leant over to Rowlanda, “Something’s not right,” he hissed.

Rowlanda nodded, biting her lip thoughtfully, “You’re right,” she agreed, “Mr. Blevins, I hate to bring this matter to your attention but isn’t it rather strange Mr. Bodkin hasn’t returned from his errand?”

“Oh dear,” Mr. Blevins replied, trying to hide his trembling hand under the table, “I uh… I hope it isn’t too forward to tell you?” he took a deep hitched breath, “I happen to know the nature of his errand, or a - a - a at least… I suspect he was delivering letters... to old Mrs. O’Keeffe,” he leant forward, “I know he likes to keep the matter of his birth a secret but I know the _sluagh sìdhe_ like yourself understand the link one can have to their Old Country,” he whispered.

Rowlanda sniffed, “Fair folk?” she asked stiffly.

Mr. Blevins tapped the side of his nose, his eyes twinkling, “I may be old and mad, but I know… I met him in my youth... and our dear Mr. Bodkin hasn’t aged a day… in _all_ my years,” he winced under Rowlanda’s intense gaze.

“Oh no,” Scaarbach said before he stopped himself.

“As I said,” Mr. Blevins continued, “Mr. Bodkin’s… friends… a - a - a - are always welcome _here._ ”

Rowlanda and Scaarbach shared a look, “Would you be _terribly_ insulted if we left to search for Mr. Bodkin, Mr. Blevins?” Rowlanda asked.

“No - no, please b - b - be... be my guest,” Mr. Blevins stammered awkwardly, “Who am I to… hold someone like _yourselves_ back?”

“We’re indebted to you, honestly,” Rowlanda insisted, “It’d be ever so convenient if we could leave these bundles with you while we search, Mr. Blevins.”

“Oh - oh, I will… I - I mean of course... I will be... _happy_ to be of service,” Mr. Blevins bobbed stiffly.

⁂

Rowlanda led Scaarbach down the streets and back alleys, looking for clues of Bodkin’s disappearance. They came across an inconspicuous little building, overshadowed by the two newer buildings that straddled it either side. The front door was left wide open, yet no one seemed home. A semi-circle of small children gathered around it, none daring to step inside.

“Who lives here?” Rowlanda asked, gesturing at the house.

The children shrunk back further, their blank faces worrying shades of grey, “Mrs. O’Keeffe, miss,” one said helpfully.

“A witch!” another hissed viciously.

“Well… so they say,” a slightly older child added, “Certainly not any more, miss.”

“What happened here?” Rowlanda wondered, taking a step towards the entrance.

“It was ugly, miss,” the first child replied, “Screaming and crashing, there’s no doubt she’s dead, miss.”

One of the other children tried to hush the first, speaking so fast Scaarbach had no hope of understanding.

“I see,” Rowlanda replied, “You should all run along, you’re all _far_ too young to have to worry about this kind of nonsense,” she took a tentative step into the little building.

Not wanting to be outdone in front of the children, Scaarbach quickly followed, nearly slipping on what had turned out to be a piece of paper inscribed with changeling runes. He hastily tucked it into his coat pocket, hoping the children hadn’t seen him do it.

“Was she a changeling, ma’am?” Scaarbach whispered, running his hand along the peeling wallpaper.

Rowlanda shook her head, “From what I understand, she was an unknowing courier, sending messages to the Hourglass in Cork.”

“So why kill her, ma’am?” Scaarbach wondered, squatting down over the body of an elderly woman, her moth-eaten shawl thrown over her face.

“It’s hard to say,” Rowlanda replied, “There’s signs of conflict but—” she picked another piece of paper off the floor, “— I _doubt_ this was a changeling’s doing.”

“Not Bodkin,” Scaarbach concluded.

Rowlanda laughed, “Not Bodkin.”

“Where could he be, ma’am?” Scaarbach asked, turning his in the direction of a draught.

Rowlanda walked over to the other side of the room and disappeared behind a turned over wardrobe, “This door is open, it leads to a courtyard and—” she stopped, her words hanging in the air awaiting completion, “Did you hear that?”

“No ma’am?” Scaarbach followed her, standing by the open doorway, “Wait,” he paused, thinking he heard something like a raised curse, “Maybe.”

To Scaarbach’s surprise, Rowlanda hitched up her skirts and tied them in a knot above her knees, “It sounded as though it came from over this fence,” she said before hopping over it with ease.

Scaarbach frowned, not quiet tall enough to make it over the fence in question and disinclined towards jumping up and down like a little child wanting to be carried. He spotted a turned over barrel and dragged it over, using it as a step to make it across and over to the other side. He met Rowlanda untying her skirts, smoothing them down to make herself respectable once more. She turned her ear to the air, listening carefully for further clues as to Bodkin’s location. The sky met them both with a wet drizzle that while annoying, couldn’t boast itself to be legitimate rain, even if it threatened to turn their day even more sour than it already was.

They heard a loud yell in what Scaarbach assumed to be an Irish curse, it was definitely Bodkin’s voice, tinted with just enough gravel that it obvious he was beyond anger. The two changelings wasted no time and ran for the voice as fast as their legs could carry them. Scaarbach’s heels slid on the damp cobblestone and Rowlanda held her skirts in her hand as she ran, muttering under her breath something about how if Bodkin was dead she was going to have to kill him herself.

In the distance was a small crowd of people, far too far away for Scaarbach to see with any clarity, but the din of their posturing betrayed them to be thieves and ruffians by Scaarbach’s ear. Rowlanda held Scaarbach back by his collars in case he got any grandiose ideas above his station.

“Don’t make a sound, one of them has a knife… or maybe a razor held to Sebastian’s throat,” Rowlanda hissed, “They haven’t spotted us yet.”

“How many of them are there, do you think, ma’am?” Scaarbach asked.

Rowlanda growled, “Eight, no - no, twelve.”

“Thieves?” Scaarbach wondered, a half-baked idea formed in his head.

“We hope,” Rowlanda said.

“Do you still have any money in your… uh… uh… money bag, ma’am?” Scaarbach whispered.

“Thirteen pounds, eight shillings and a sixpence,” Rowlanda replied, “The pounds belong to the Order, but the _rest_ is mine.”

“Give it to me, ma’am, I have an idea,” Scaarbach insisted, holding out his hand.

“What are you planning, Scaarbach?” Rowlanda asked cautiously.

Scaarbach looked over at the men threatening Bodkin, “There’s no time, just give me your money bag,” he turned and smiled at her, “I’ll pay it all back, I promise.”

Rowlanda sighed, and dug deep between the flesh held tightly in her bodice, pulling out her champagne silk purse, “I’ll accept nothing but payment in full, Scaarbach,” she said, thrusting the purse into his hands.

Scaarbach took the purse, checking the contents, just to be sure. He took several steps towards the men, despite Rowlanda’s desperate pleas for him to stay put.

“Hallo, Mr. Men!” Scaarbach yelled brightly, “You have my friend!”

One of the men growled something in reply but Scaarbach couldn’t understand him.

“In this little bag is contain… thirteen pounds… eight shillings… and a sixpence!” Scaarbach yelled, opening the purse, “Many money, yes?”

The men seemed to watch him carefully.

“It is… how does one say—” Scaarbach grinned, imaging himself looking _quite_ mischievous, and flung the contents of the purse as far towards to the other end of the street as he could manage, “Fetch!”

Several of the men ran towards the coins as fast as they could manage, barrelling passed Scaarbach like hounds with the scent of a fox in the air. But Scaarbach wasn’t going to wait for them to get to their destination. He ran towards the man holding a blade to Bodkin’s throat, who turned out to be so much _taller_ than he imagined from a distance. Using the momentum of his sprint, and unintentionally the lack of traction underfoot, Scaarbach held out his right fist and caught the man directly on the delicate pieces.

As the man lost balance, struggling to stay upright, Bodkin’s hand flashed up and pried the cut-throat razor out of the human’s hands, fast as lightning. Scaarbach fell backwards, landing on his tailbone as he tried to counterbalance himself on the slippery cobblestones.

“Listen here you little shit,” Bodkin hissed, brandishing the blade towards the human, “I’m _not_ some pathetic nobby kid too wet to play dirty,” he slashed broadly on the man’s coat, “The harder you fight the quicker you die.”

Scaarbach took the initiative and pulled on the man’s coat, “Do you want him dead?” he grunted, trying to avoid the kicks in his direction.

“He killed Mrs. O’Keeffe!” Bodkin yelled, fighting off another of his men, “But I’ll be damned if I blow my cover for these overgrown street rats!”

Scaarbach managed to pull himself to his feet and ducked a punch that probably would have missed anyway, “Humans kill humans all the time!”

“Did you hear that, you bastard?” Bodkin asked, grinning dangerously. He punched the man hard, his fist connecting his jaw from underneath. There was a bone shattering crunch and the man fell to the ground in a crumpled heap.

“Was that your plan?” Scaarbach wondered, carefully eyeing the man in case he showed signs of life.

“Oops,” Bodkin yelped, “I meant to drag it out a little _bit_ longer than that,” he laughed, “What about you?” he asked, looking at the other man who stood watching them, his fists raised.

“Ol’ Johnny was a bastard anyway,” he muttered, lowering his fists, “Didn’t wanna kill the Paddy bag, he just wanted to send a message.”

Bodkin smiled at the man brightly, “Have you heard _my_ message?”

“Loud and clear, sir... uh... whatever you are,” the man nodded, going white in the face.

“Take your friends and clear off,” Bodkin muttered, “I’ve had enough of all of you.”

The man didn’t want to see if Bodkin had anything else to add and ran off into the greying distance. Shortly afterwards, Scaarbach caught sight of Rowlanda jogging up to them.

“I can’t believe that worked,” Scaarbach laughed.

“You owe me thirteen pounds, and eight shillings,” Rowlanda grinned, rosy cheeked, and sporting a colourful splash of red across her bodice.

“What about the six pence?” Scaarbach asked.

“The six pence is on the house for letting me scare the shit out of those bullies,” Rowlanda turned her attention to Bodkin, “Are you in one piece, young vulture?”

Bodkin tucked the razor away into his breast pocket, “I’m perfectly fine,” he kicked the body at their feet, “Better than fine,” he smoothed down his blue woollen cape, “Best we get moving. Mr. Blevins must be worried _sick_ , poor chap.”

⁂

The rain fell heavily as the three changelings returned on their carriage ride back to Castlemain House. Bodkin stared into nothingness as though he didn’t notice the others in the carriage with him, his mind on other, presumably darker things. Rowlanda fussed with her bonnet awkwardly.

“The thing that still gives me a certain degree of puzzlement—” Rowlanda began, “— is _why_ they came for you and Mrs. O’Keefe in the first place.”

“Did they… find out about your… _situation_?” Scaarbach wondered.

“No, or at least, I don’t think they did,” Bodkin muttered bitterly.

“Then why did they attack you both?” Rowlanda continued.

Bodkin growled under his breath, “It was… human bullshit,” he smiled thinly, “They didn’t like foreigners.”

“But you’re not foreign?” Scaarbach frowned.

Bodkin rolled his eyes so dramatically even Scaarbach could see them, “Of course _you_ can’t tell, Mr. _Bach_. You tell him, Rowlanda, I’m too tired to try to explain.”

“Oh,” Rowlanda bit her lip, “Well you see, Bodkin only puts _on_ an English accent. Any native Englishman can tell it’s as fake as the pearls on a child’s doll.”

“Oh,” Scaarbach sighed. It seemed no matter where he travelled, humans were always, _always_ the same. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bodkin.”

“It’s quite alright,” Bodkin tilted his head to the side and smiled, “Thank you for your quick thinking. Things could have turned out very differently today.”

Scaarbach thought of his growing debt that he felt despairingly powerless to prevent, wondering if his ‘quick thinking’ was going to bring him more trouble than it was worth, “The Lady smiled over us,” he said, hoping that at least was true.

⁂

It was perfectly ordinary day in March, approaching midday and the weather was beginning to warm. Scaarbach almost wanted to shirk his lessons to explore Castlemain’s grounds, yet he continued to sit at Bodkin’s desk, studying English alone. There was a curt knock on the door and Bonvisi pushed open the door, holding something distinctly… pale in his hand.

“Good morning, Mr. Bonvisi,” Scaarbach said, “I am sorry but Bodkin is away fitting the Harpy.”

“Good morning, Mr. Bach,” Bonvisi replied stiffly, “I have a letter for you.”

Scaarbach thought he misheard, “From Berlin?” he asked, his voice a low whisper.

Bonvisi grunted, “None other,” he replied, handing over the letter.

“Thank you, Mr. Bonvisi,” Scaarbach said.

Bonvisi nodded curtly, “Good day, Mr. Bach,” he said before closing the door behind himself.

Scaarbach rolled his eyes dismissively at the door and then turned his attention to the letter. The official wax seal had been broken, and its exterior was stamped with the insignia of the Dragon and the Cockatrice, dated two months and the day earlier respectively. He gulped nervously. It was not from Sidonia herself, that much was clear from the paper alone, but he knew that it had least been officially approved by someone high up in the Order. He almost didn’t dare open it, utterly convinced it was sent by Kozlóv.

With a resolute sniff, he put the letter in the pocket of his waistcoat and tried to return to his studies. On some level he knew the words individually but his mind was lost on those stashed away in his pocket. His hand darted out and spread the letter over his reference book. If it was Kozlóv he couldn’t wait, he _had_ to know immediately.

* * *

  
Dear “Scaarbach”  
Vulture of the Citadel of Bones,

Forgive my boldness, but I am writing this letter to thank you again for the pre-emptive wedding gift. It was a kindness I did not earn and I will forever be grateful for your courtesy. You may be pleased to learn that I have not yet needed it, and I hope to persuade the Strix to grant me special dispensation in the matter of marital affairs.

It was decided by [REDACTED] that the Forgotten Trinket was no longer a suitable station for someone with my temperament and inexperience, and I was promptly reposted to the Gilded Paw. As these words will not be limited to the eyes of only yourself, I cannot confess my heart in strict confidence, yet know that your unceremonious disgrace has been in my thoughts more frequently than one should dare to admit. If we have learned anything in our select experiences, it is surely that one must remain vigilant against our greatest respective enemy lest our stone crumble away like castles of sand. I must confess that I take strength in knowing I am not the only one to share in the loneliness of relocation.

May you have the Lady’s Grace,  
“Anradvia”  
Duckling of the Gilded Paw

P.S. Write to me if you will, I know that you of all people understand.  
P.P.S. When you are a tailor I would like a waistcoat and pair of breeches made to my measurements. It seems only fair after your previous outfit suited you so well.  
P.P.P.S. We met only briefly, I hope this doesn’t count as insubordination.

* * *

Scaarbach sat at the desk, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, more disappointed than he thought possible. He allowed himself a moment of disillusionment before he forced the spite to rise again. He was not mad at the young changeling for her overly formal and carefully guarded words, but he felt foolish for hoping for even a second that Kozlóv would ever care to write to him. He inhaled, took out a fresh sheet of paper and dipped his nib into the inkwell.

* * *

  
Young “Anradvia”  
Duckling of the Gilded Paw,

I hope this letter finds you well. Thank you for your kind words, I had not realised I made that much of an impression, but if you have chosen me to lead by example, I can only hope I don’t lead you so far astray.

I am studying hard in the Library of Alexandria, there is so much more to learn than I ever thought possible. The residents are patient with me, some more than others, but I must admit this place could have been so much worse, and I’ve had one or two adventures of my own to keep me entertained.

It is our duty as members of the Order to serve as our betters see fit. The Lady saw fit to put us in our place, and who would we be if we dared argue? No, we must bow and scrape as best we can, hoping only to be of value to the collective vision of our Order. If the Lady has seen fit to bestow us such loneliness, we can only assume it is for a greater purpose.

May you have the Lady’s Patience  
“Scaarbach”  
Vulture of the Citadel of Bones

P.S. I hope this short letter meets your expectations.  
P.P.S. Very funny, duckling.  
P.P.P.S. If you are trying for insubordination, perhaps try a little more crudeness? Something along the lines of, ‘I hate this place and the people here, and if you ever see that bastard Kozlóv again, I hope you spit in his fucking eye.’

* * *

Scaarbach leant back against his chair and smiled to himself. Despite everything unfortunate that had happened, it was a strange comfort to know that of all the people in the world, there was at least one who understood the infuriating torment he endured, even if she _was_ nothing more than an annoying little duckling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Wizards hasn't meant this chapter has gone unread because I am actually quite fond of this chapter and the characters in it. Bodkin is too fun of a character to not give him _some_ adventure of his own. And Anradvia, the little duckling, she is so soft in her own little spiky way.


	20. The Darned Socks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the year 1801 and just over two years since Scaarbach began his hunt for the rebel Velima headed for Siberia. A lot has changed since then and he’s finally beginning to feel as though his hard work is paying off, but an unexpected encounter forces him to confront everything he left behind.
> 
> CW: Alcohol, Sexual References, a Very Specific Intimacy with a Sock

It was late afternoon and Scaarbach sat by the window, needle in hand, patching a hole in a pair of breeches. His mind was blessedly clear, and he had been sewing for long enough that his muscles remembered what to do without much direction, the needle gliding back and forth through the linen without much coaxing at all. There was a creak at the door and Bodkin returned from whatever errand had taken him.

Bodkin leant over Scaarbach in his corner, an alertness in his eyes told him it was on changeling matters, “Your services are required in the _third_ guest room.”

Scaarbach blinked, slightly annoyed to have been shaken out of his trance, but grateful for a chance to stretch his legs, “Very well, Mr. Bodkin,” he tucked his needle in the patch, ready for his return, and hopped onto the ground.

“And remember to take a kit with you, dear chap,” Bodkin sung after him as Scaarbach went to leave.

“As you say, Mr. Bodkin,” Scaarbach sighed, grabbing the small basket of sewing essentials they kept by the door.

He wasn’t overly familiar with the guest quarters, but his time in Castlemain house had been enough to imprint a fairly reliable mental map of its various floors and maze-like collection of rooms. Scaarbach approached the guest room and paused, taking a moment to unrumple his clothes and smooth out his hair. Satisfied he was vaguely presentable he entered the room, expecting to see the hints of a torn shirt folded out on the bed, with a polite but direct note pinned to its sleeve.

“You should close that door,” a familiar voice said, “These walls have ears.”

Scaarbach nearly dropped the kit he held in his hand but his anger rallied him to composure, “Of course, sir,” he smiled tautly, doing as he was told.

“I’m in the middle of a mission,” Kozlóv explained sheepishly, seated in the far distant bed in centre of the room, “Would you darn a sock for me?”

There was no possible way Scaarbach could get away with refusing. “Very well, sir,” he said, taking a seat at the small but elegantly dressed table by the window.

The sock in question was folded neatly by the vase of freshly picked flowers. Scaarbach took the sock and examined it, trying not to audibly grind his teeth as he did so. It had worn through on the toe and under the heel. An easy fix. If he were lucky he could finish it before either Kozlóv or himself made the situation worse. He took out a spool of unbleached cotton, and attempted to rethread the needle. A bottle of wine sat open, not far from the flowers, and the aroma was torture to Scaarbach’s palate.

“I have been very busy as captain,” Kozlóv said, “Changelings are very difficult to control but I’ve earned the loyalty those under my wing... I think.”

Scaarbach grunted, refusing to reply. If Kozlóv was attempting to make amends, he was going to have to try _so_ much harder than that. He looked down at the sock, wanting nothing more than to reach over and grab the wine, to swig it down in vulgar defiance, but instead he started darning the single worn sock as though he held a grudge against it personally.

“I understand that you write to Anradvia on a regular basis,” Kozlóv continued, “It’s good of you to do that, I know she still struggles in the human world,” he cleared his throat awkwardly, “I didn’t think you were the type.”

Scaarbach continued to actively ignore the changeling, trying to desperately to ignore how angry he still was, and how part of him had foolishly hoped the man would have sent letters of his own.

“You’re still angry at me,” Kozlóv sighed, “There is wine, by compliments of the Cockatrice,” he said, “But I don’t like the taste.”

Scaarbach bit his lip to stop himself from saying something smart.

“It is already open,” Kozlóv added, “Would… you like a glass?”

Scaarbach looked up despite himself, cursing the thirst that would do anything for something smooth to drink. He nodded, a curt and guilty nod. He couldn’t see to that distance, but he just knew Kozlóv had smiled warmly, the bastard.

“Good!” Kozlóv said, getting up from the generous guest bed and bending over Scaarbach.

Scaarbach tried his best to ignore him, focusing his attention on the wine being poured, “Thank you sir,” he said, taking a sip, savouring the warm glow it left behind.

Kozlóv sat back on the bed wordlessly, perhaps understanding at last that Scaarbach was in no mood to talk. There was a long, welcome moment of silence, the only sounds Scaarbach tsking to himself when he made the odd mistake, the clink of glass when he accidentally knocked it against the porcelain vase, and his foot tapping impatiently on the leg of his chair.

“I _am_ sorry, Ottokar. I hope you know that,” Kozlóv muttered, as though paranoid the others listened, “The Order would have destroyed any letters I sent to you.”

“I don’t care, _Sasha_ ,” Scaarbach spat bitterly, “I’ve been busy too, you know. How like you to drag me off to gloat about how wonderful your life is now while forcing me to sit here and darn your fucking socks.”

“That wasn’t my intention,” Kozlóv replied, his voice still low.

“Why don’t you tell me about your latest lover,” Scaarbach smiled sourly, “Exactly how big is her generous bosom?”

“What lover?” Kozlóv asked, sounding genuinely confused, “I’ve been busy as captain.”

Scaarbach paused, his needle hanging in the air like an unfinished thought, “You’ve… been with no one else?”

“It has been a _long_ two years,” Kozlóv exhaled, “Forgive me for wanting to see you alone again, I just wanted to know you were doing well.”

Scaarbach looked at him as though he were a fool, “No, I’ve _not_ been doing well. I hate it here in this stupid place, playing old wife like I have nothing better to do. What did you want me to tell you?”

Kozlóv was silent.

He took a sip of the wine, and finished off the ends of his darning. Scaarbach took a moment to ensure the darned socks would sit as flat as possible, and satisfied, nodded to his job well done.

“I am finished,” Scaarbach said, holding up the single sock as though it signed his release.

“Very good,” Kozlóv replied.

It took a lot for Scaarbach to notice, but the extremely blurry flash of Kozlóv’s breeches indicated that he was waving his foot expectantly.

“You can’t be serious,” Scaarbach moaned.

“I’m serious,” Kozlóv replied, not a hint of humour on his tone.

Scaarbach sighed, and biting his pride, took the sock to the changeling’s bed and got to his knees, “Very well sir,” he said.

He rolled up the sock, smiled thinly with contempt, and slid it onto the man’s foot and up his scarred leg. Scaarbach looked up at him from the floor, unable to see his face, and fighting the urge to rest his face on his knee like a pathetic forlorn puppy. The contempt vanishing in the face of... memories of colder times.

“I missed you,” Kozlóv whispered, his voice so soft Scaarbach was convinced he had misheard.

“I’m sorry?” Scaarbach asked.

“No, I - I mean—” Kozlóv stammered, “I missed you _physically_.”

Scaarbach shook his head and got to his feet, “I should be going,” he said, not trusting himself to stay.

“I have a gift for you,” Kozlóv said, a hand gripping Scaarbach’s vest with shocking desperation.

Scaarbach looked down at the hand coldly, “What kind of gift?” he asked, not at all trusting his chances.

Kozlóv let him go and turned to rummage in a chest by his bed, handing over a large wad of papers, bundled up with string, “Just something I owe you,” he explained.

“Oh,” Scaarbach took the bundle back to the table by the window, and more importantly, the glass of wine.

The first was a letter, dated the week Scaarbach before had first reached London. It was, for the most part, a long list of apologies and regrets. Words he’d tried and failed to say outloud. Scaarbach dismissed them instantly. He turned to the next letter, dated a week after the first, and largely a repeat of what had come before. He was unimpressed. 

Several weeks in the apologies faded, turning instead to reports of his duties, how well the changelings were going, how Alžbeta’s husband had nearly exposed them all when he stumbled into the secret basement of the base, which was used as a stash to hoard weapons and documents not for human eyes. Kozlóv asked after Scaarbach, wondering how well his apprenticeship was going, and how he took to the English lifestyle.

A year or so in, the letters began to take a… personal turn, eventually becoming an explicit detailing of lustful filth. Scaarbach almost refused to read the last letter, terrified it might have contained declarations of far worse feelings, but to his surprise, it had been penned by the Dragon herself. She stated that she finally deemed Scaarbach worthy of the additional money he required for eye glasses, providing the money came from Kozlóv’s salary and not her own. It had been dated three months earlier.

Scaarbach looked up at Kozlóv, not knowing what to say, “Sasha, I…?”

Kozlóv plonked a money purse on the table, “I already changed it into English money, the rest is up to you.”

A doubting hand pulled the purse towards himself, “Why would you… do this?” Scaarbach wondered, suddenly paranoid he had stumbled into a trap.

“I… need a moment,” Kozlóv said, ducking off to a corner of the room. He took a large, flat object, probably a privacy screen and positioned it in front of the door. He sat back on the bed.

“Well?” Scaarbach asked.

“Come closer,” Kozlóv said.

Sccarbach approached him tentatively, unsure what he was going to do, “Is this the part you tell me the catch?” he asked impatiently.

Kozlóv chuckled, “There’s no catch.”

“That’s what they all say,” Scaarbach replied.

“I’m repaying a debt,” Kozlóv reached out a hand to smooth out Scaarbach’s waistcoat, “That is all. You may go if you wish.”

“Thank you,” Scaarbach replied gratefully.

A long moment passed between them as Scaarbach tried to bring himself to leave, but for reasons he couldn’t fathom, his feet remained firmly planted on the floor. Kozlóv seemed to understand, patting the spot next to him on the bed. 

With great reluctance Scaarbach sat next to him, avoiding eye contact awkwardly. Up close he looked different. Kozlóv was dressed in English clothes, which was to say, sensible and dull. His hair was freshly cut, and his beard trimmed neatly. The faint smell of flowers betrayed that he’d recently bathed. If Scaarbach didn’t know better, he’d have sworn he’d made an effort.

Scaarbach stared at him, completely mystified, “I don’t have human feelings for you,” he said quietly.

Kozlóv nodded, “Neither do I,” he went quiet for a moment, “How is your leg?”

“It’s fine,” Scaarbach replied.

“I’m not good with a needle,” Kozlóv chewed his lip, “It’s not _too_ ugly is it?”

“No uglier than the rest of me,” Scaarbach replied, slightly amused Kozlóv thought to care about the state of his scars, of all things.

“May I see?” Kozlóv asked, placing a hand his thigh.

Scaarbach nearly leapt back, “No! You can’t,” he tried to lower his voice, “Wölfin said if she heard I’ve had my hands down anyone’s breeches she’ll cut them off.”

“The breeches?” Kozlóv was incredulous.

“My hands,” Scaarbach explained, “I _swear_ she meant it.”

Kozlóv nodded solemnly, “We’ll just not tell her, huh?”

A part of him yelled at him to stop but Scaarbach was tired of anger and resentment. He leant forward and kissed Kozlóv. He poured his years of isolation and unsatiated desire into it, desperately clawing at the past he had ruined with his own lack of foresight. Kozlóv fumbled aimlessly with Scaarbach’s waistcoat, managing to half unbutton it before he drew himself back.

“Are you sure?” Kozlóv asked quietly.

“Sasha, I’m tired. It’s been two _long_ years and I just read all your disgusting letters,” Scaarbach replied, his self-loathing threatened to swallow him whole.

“Oh, you _liked_ the letters?” Kozlóv grinned, looking quite proud of himself.

“I…,” Scaarbach crossed his arms sulkily, “They were fine.”

Kozlóv smirked to himself smugly and continued pawing at Scaarbach’s waistcoat, removing it with an annoyed swipe. He then took hold of Scaarbach by the fabric of his undershirt, tugging it up and out until it fell over his breeches. He pulled up an edge, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.

“What is this?” Kozlóv asked.

“There was a hole in it,” Scaarbach explained.

“Is this supposed to be a bunny rabbit?” Kozlóv chuckled.

“I was practising my stitches when I got carried away,” Scaarbach said, feeling sheepish, “My mind was…,” he trailed off, unable to bring himself to finish the thought.

Kozlóv smiled, “You were thinking about our adventure.”

“No,” Scaarbach shook his head, “I was wondering how many _other_ things are blatantly obvious to other people but completely invisible to me.”

“Ah,” Kozlóv ran his thumb over the embroidered rabbit on Scaarbach’s undershirt, “I thought for a moment that you missed me.”

“Of course I missed you,” the words spilled from Scaarbach’s mouth before he could stop them, “Physically,” he corrected himself, “I remember… I remember you being very—” he flailed, “— tall.”

Kozlóv’s eyes twinkled, “I remember you being very funny.”

⁂

Checking his waistcoat buttons as he closed Kozlóv’s door behind him, Scaarbach realised in his haste that he had forgotten to collect the money, letter of approval, and sewing kit. He sheepishly returned to the guest room, wordlessly collecting his things. He paused, looking at the letters Kozlóv had written for him over the years.

“Don’t worry, I’ll burn them,” Kozlóv said, still reclined on his rumbled bedding.

Scaarbach nodded thoughtfully, flicking through them looking for his favourite, “All but this one,” he said, folding it up several times and slipping it into his shirt sleeve.

“Which one did you take?” Kozlóv asked, his voice hushed.

“Your last,” Scaarbach mumbled, heading for the door before the other changeling could reaction.

“That could get us both into trouble,” Kozlóv warned him.

Scaarbach turned around, his arm on the door frame, “Blackmail,” he joked, before heading out the door.

Scaarbach made it half way down the hall before stumbling into another soul, and he shrunk back, immediately guilty for breaking his indulgence.

“Mr. Bach,” Bonvisi said dryly, “It’s not becoming to be seen loitering around the guest quarters.”

“Mr. Bonvisi,” Scaarbach frowned, “Please tell me. What is ‘loitering’ meaning?”

The butler sighed, “Sneaking around wasting time.”

“Oh,” Scaarbach pouted, “I was returning from doing an errand for a guest.”

“What errand?” Bonvisi seemed sceptical.

“Darning socks,” Scaarbach waved the sewing kit at him defensively.

“Which guest?” Bonvisi continued mercilessly.

“He is the Owl of the Forgotten Trinket,” Scaarbach replied weakly.

“Kozlóv!” Bonvisi exclaimed.

“You know the name?” Scaarbach asked.

“I remember the rumours,” Bonvisi sniffed, looking Scaarbach up and down.

“No one told me it was going to be him,” Scaarbach replied.

“Get back to your post,” Bonvisi sighed, “With the lords and ladies of the house off to Glastonbury, I don’t have the time to press this situation further.”

Scaarbach positively deflated with relief, “Thank you sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What was happening in Glastonbury, we may never know...


	21. Expecting Judgement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in his life on the surface, Scaarbach is able to see with a respectable degree of clarity and the world is _beautiful_. From an unfortunately expected corner he uncovers that all has not been toward in Castlemain House and thanks to his improving English skills, bonds with an unlikely human.
> 
> CW: Morning Sickness, Pregnancy, Perceived Slut Shaming, Historically Accurate Reasons for Marriage Implied, References to Coercion into Marriage, Casual Mentions of Sterilisation, Gore Referenced, Cruelty to She-Wolves Referenced, Regicide Referenced

The physician’s office was cramped, dusty in places, and slightly alarming to the casual observer. Scaarbach sat in the chair in front of his desk, waiting patiently for the doctor to return. He glanced around the room eyeing the ominous brown and grey blobs wearily, pretty confident the tall patch of paleness in the corner was in fact a fully articulated human skeleton, most likely sadly lacking in jewels or medieval character.

The physician returned at last, holding a tray of what Scaarbach assumed to be spectacles, and then placed them on his desk. He thumbed through them carefully, taking note of whatever was written on the labels tied to each. Without a word a pulled out a pair and stood before Scaarbach, wiping the lenses with a felt cloth he kept in his breast pocket.

“These should fit,” the physician muttered as he placed them on Scaarbach’s face and stood back, frowning at his handiwork, “How do they feel, Mr. Bach?”

Scaarbach wriggled the frames not entirely sure what he was supposed to be looking out for, “A small amount —” he frowned, trying to remember the word, “— as they may fall?”

The physician tutted and took them back, disappearing into the blobby greys once again. He returned quickly, and put them on Scaarbach once again.

“Better, Mr. Bach?” the physician asked.

Scaarbach jiggled the frames on his face noting they did indeed seem a little more secure, “Yes better, doctor.”

The physician nodded, gesturing at a painting on the other side of a the room, “Can you tell me what you are looking at, Mr. Bach?”

“I uh—” Scaarbach blinked, his eyes losing focus for a second, “— It is a picture. It is a picture of a sheep and a uh… uh… baby sheep. There is a mountain and clouds.”

The physician continued nodding, “Very good, Mr. Bach. Do you find yourself happy with the clarity?”

“I’m sorry, doctor. My English is still—” Scaarbach winced, “What is ‘clarity,’ how is it found?”

“Are you happy with how good you can see now, Mr. Bach?” the physician explained.

“Oh! Yes!” Scaarbach clapped his hands together, “I can see the lines of the brush!” he turned his attention to the rest of the room, “And the… bone… man… in the corner, and the—” he frowned at jar containing the eye ball of some poor creature, “— that is an eye.”

“Indeed it is,” the physician smiled, “If you are happy with your new spectacles, you are free to leave. Remember to return if give you any trouble, and you must promise to take good care of them.”

“For that money—” Scaarbach smiled thinly, “— I will take them as gold itself,” he made his way out the physician’s office, somewhat disorientated by how suddenly ear the ground was to him, but confident he would adjust.

Scaarbach spun around, overwhelmed by the turmoil that broiled around him. Never in his life had he gazed upon so many human faces at once, each different and somehow the same as the other. They paid no attention to him as they went about their business, some dressed like noble lords, others like street beggars and orphans. The level of detail was unlike anything he had known. He watched amazed as a child met his eyes as she ran past, the bright blue of her irises shockingly vivid against the dark black of her lashes.

He spun around, immediately catching sight of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Despite reason or dignity, he ran, he physically ran to get closer, to see even more than he ever thought possible. Her dark hair fell as curls about her face, the rest of her crown hidden by a bonnet tied with a soft blue bow under her chin. She wasn’t young, the slight creases around her eyes betrayed that, not to mention the history within. Her mouth was full, but narrow, curled in an entirely unimpressed frown, and Scaarbach’s eyes fell to the delicate shawl she had draped over her shoulders, revealing just enough of her décolletage for him to feel robbed by her modesty. He took a step back, having enough self-awareness to realise he was visibly and publicly gawking.

His eyes met his hands in a show of humility, “Excuse me, madame,” Scaarbach mumbled, “You are… not who I think you are.”

“That and no mistake,” the beauty huffed, “I’ve never seen you before in my life!”

A hand rested on Scaarbach shoulder, and for a moment he feared for his life, “There you are, good chap! I lost sight of you after you popped into the physician’s,” Bodkin exclaimed merrily, “We won’t keep you, my lady. Good day!”

The beauty nodded slowly, her deep eyes dancing between the two changelings with withheld judgement, “Good day,” she concluded, side-stepping away from them and disappearing into the crowd.

“Are you finished drooling at strangers?” Bodkin wondered.

“I had no idea that humans could be so…,” Scaarbach had no idea where his thoughts were going, but he was helpless to stop them.

Bodkin laughed, “Oh I see, or rather, oh _you_ see,” he faced Scaarbach, putting a hand under his chin and turning his jaw to the side as he examined the overall effect, “Yes... yes they suit you quite well, the lenses are thick, of course that is the case, but they add an air of… how should I say… much needed humility to your otherwise inclination towards pride.”

Scaarbach frowned at Bodkin, realising how little he had known of the man’s face at all, “You are… not how I imagined.”

“How you imagined?” Bodkin laughed, “How terrible _are_ your eyes, exactly?”

“I had no idea,” Scaarbach looked away, “I imagined you… handsomer than you are.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Bodkin grinned, a hint of viciousness behind the gleam, “Much like yourself I am perfectly ordinary in appearance, _Gerbrander_ is the beautiful one.”

“Is he?” Scaarbach could imagine it, no longer trusting his memory or the vision he had grown used to, “Even compared to Catwadder?”

“It’s a matter of taste, I suppose,” Bodkin conceded, “But come, there’s only so much idle chatter one can endure, and we have work ahead of us at home.”

⁂

The sky did not so much pour but drizzle as Scaarbach stepped out into the rear courtyard of Castlemain house. Still, he pulled his woollen coat around himself as he trudged up the path in the direction of the privy. He had slept poorly, as he often did, and needed, so desperately needed to be alone if for only a precious moment. The privy was obviously the least appealing of locations, however it was the one place he could exist without being harassed. He unfolded Kozlóv’s letter which he habitually kept hidden on his person, reading it smugly to himself by the light of his eyes. Scaarbach couldn’t forgive the man, not exactly, not fully, but as his grudge against Kozlóv had fizzled into general jealousy, he needed something to fuel him, no matter how selfish or carnal.

There was an urgent knock on the privy door and an upsettingly organic burbling sound. Scaarbach waited for a moment for the inevitable words to follow but they never came, instead the space was filled by the sounds of whomever it was vomiting off to the side. He tentatively opened the door, checking before he stepped out into the open. A figure had half-hidden themselves behind the bushes but Scaarbach could see the patterned skirts dampening in the gentle rain. For a moment he considered leaving whomever it was to it, but the intricacies of English deportment still largely eluded him and he was caught between at least two conflicting rules. He stood transfixed, not really knowing where to look, but not daring to leave the person alone.

“I…,” Scaarbach hazarded, “I fetch the doctor, yes?”

The figure shot up, eyes wide like a frightened child, “No don’t!” Sally exclaimed, “Please don’t!”

“Miss Baker?” Scaarbach made a face, “But… you are sick?”

Sally turned a peculiar shade of grey, covering her mouth with her hand, “Please! You don’t understand!” were she planning to follow this up with further explanation she didn’t get a chance.

“It was the… fish of supper, yes?” Scaarbach asked, turning his face to the sky and letting the soft drizzle bead on the glass of his spectacles.

“I wish it—” Sally made a unpleasant noise, and Scaarbach realised mentioning food at all was a mistake, “No one can know about this, even Dr. Tulp,” she said after regaining her composure, “I’ll lose my job for this.”

Scaarbach sighed, so that was the problem, “Who was it?”

“I won’t tell,” Sally replied, stepping out onto the lush lawn, “Not that it matters, the lying bastard,” she shook her head, a thin smile on her mouth, “Never should’ve believed those pretty words of his.”

“You… owe him no loyalty, Miss Baker,” Scaarbach turned back to the house, wondering how easy it would be to escape.

“Don’t go! Not yet!” Sally cried, “This is to be our little secret, Mr. Bach,” she gulped audibly, “I need time to think… to make arrangements.”

“Arrangements?” Scaarbach asked blankly, not familiar with the word.

Sally exhaled, her taut grimace of a smile spreading further across her mouth, “You were married once, weren’t you? Surely you know what will happen to me if I don’t… find… a kind soul who will—” her words stopped as though she choked from panic.

Scaarbach used his handkerchief to wipe the rain from his spectacles, a vain effort against the constant drizzle, “Miss Baker, what ‘kind souls’ do you know?”

“Well I—” the grimace fell from Sally’s face and for a moment she looked very lost and exhausted, “— that’s why I need time.”

“Dr. Tulp has kindness,” Scaarbach said.

Sally stepped forward, grabbing his coat tightly in her hand, “Promise me!” she hissed, “Promise me you will tell no one!”

Scaarbach sighed, turning around to face her once again, “Miss Baker, it has been two years. I _know_ Billy is your son.”

The hand that shot out and slapped him across the cheek was too fast for him to even think of dodging. His spectacles flung off into the distant green. “How dare you!” Sally spat venomously, “How dare you try and shame me by bringing his name into this!”

“Miss Baker,” Scaarbach smiled in what he hoped was a kind and patient manner, “My uh… did you see… where they hit?”

“I’m sorry Mr. Bach, I didn’t mean to,” Sally moused, “I’ll find them for you, don’t take a step,” she spun in a circle, looking for the spectacles lying in the wet lawn, “You don’t know what it’s like—” she bent down and handed them back, “— I have spent my whole life being disrespected, my _whole_ life. When I came here I was so happy, I thought I had finally found somewhere that was safe, they even taught me how to read and write—” she hugged herself, “— but then I had to go and fall in love,” she sighed, “You must think so much less of me.”

“Disrespected,” Scaarbach said absently, wiping the rain and grass from his frames.

“Oh it means… treated like I was lesser,” Sally explained, “The least really.”

“You are like Hedwig—” Scaarbach chuckled, “— but you more… uh… fire, more fire is in you.”

“If I didn’t have fire I’d be dead by now, Mr. Bach,” Sally said coldly.

Scaarbach nodded and turned around once again, “I have work to do, Miss Baker.”

“Wait!” Sally sung out, “I just… in case I can’t see you… any more… there’s something I should say.”

Scaarbach exhaled and stood in the rain, “I promise. I will say no words of the child.”

“No I… well thank you kindly, but what I meant to say is—” Sally took a deep breath, “I appreciated it, the way you just… expected nothing from me. I can tell you must have been a good husband. If you marry again, I’m sure your wife will love you dearly and you’ll have exactly as many children as you can keep.”

“Miss Baker,” Scaarbach sighed, he grappled with how to explain to the human exactly how wrong she was, “My English is not… good for this… yet—” it was all he do to not voice his disgust at the concept, “— but I am not… what you think.”

“I know what you are,” Sally insisted.

Scaarbach nodded solemnly, “A bastard.”

⁂

Scaarbach sat tucked away in a quiet corner of the library, a mountain of books keeping him company as he worked on his translations. Humans were not permitted in that particular section, and he read with the relative security he was completely alone. It has been a quiet morning, and it was a delicious luxury to be permitted access to the secret records of the Janus Order. As a relative underling there much he had yet to learn about the inner workings of the Order, the vast network of strings that pulled delicately on the human and non-human worlds, the secret rituals and magic at their disposal.

A pair of hands came for him from behind, covering his eyes and mouth. Scaarbach instinctive froze, his heart and mind racing trying to figure out who it was. He felt the prickle of coarse hair against his ear, and smelled cheap wine on the stranger’s breath.

“Hello,” Kozlóv whispered, releasing his grip on Scaarbach’s face.

“Idiot!” Scaarbach hissed, “What if someone sees you?” he wiped the smudges from his spectacles on the edges of his sleeve cuffs.

“We’re alone,” Kozlóv replied, “I checked.”

Scaarbach instantly relaxed, “What are you doing back in England?” he asked, turning his head to see him.

Kozlóv casually sat on the table next to Scaarbach’s books, “There was… an incident,” he picked up a book at random and flipped it open, “Top secret, can’t tell you more.”

“Ah,” Scaarbach looked up at the changeling, shocked by how more mundane he looked under the relative sharp focus of his new spectacles. He was dressed like a middle-classed Englishman, very neat but very dull, notable only for his sheer bulk and the hair that silvered prematurely on his head.

“Is there something on my face?” Kozlóv asked, his voice low and abashed.

“No I…,” Scaarbach frowned, “I’ve just never _seen_ you before,” he admitted.

Kozlóv flashed him a playful look Scaarbach had never known he was capable of before, “I’ve seen how you draw me,” he flicked through a couple pages, “How are your spectacles?”

“Everything is…,” Scaarbach pretended to be distracted by his notes, “Thank you,” he muttered.

“You have ink on your hands,” Kozlóv said, smirking into the pages of his appropriated book.

“Yes Sasha,” Scaarbach sighed, “I have been writing _all_ morning, I have ink on my hands.”

“What have you been writing?” Kozlóv made a face at the blobby notes, “It looks dull.”

“Oh no, actually it’s very interesting,” Scaarbach turned to the previous page, “I’ve been translating Order secrets into English.”

“The Cockatrice allows this?” Kozlóv leant forward, “Are you being very naughty, Ottokar?”

Scaarbach exhaled wearily, “They will be burned when I am done, I’m not ‘being naughty,’ as you put it,” he gestured at a presumably anatomically correct diagram of a uterus, “Did you know that there’s actually a cure for our—” he waved his hand in the direction of delicate phrasing, “— curse.”

Kozlóv glanced at the page and made a series of puzzled expressions, “Ottokar… we don’t have _that_ curse.”

“No, I… of course we don’t,” Scaarbach massaged his brow, doing nothing to relieve the tension, “I’m talking about the curse that… makes changelings dead ends… reproductively.”

“Ridiculous!” Kozlóv scoffed, “We’re like animals, you can’t… reverse that.”

“This is an account from the 11th Century, from the Order’s own records. It tells the story of a young changeling whose familiar had been promised to the king of the land,” Scaarbach explained, “They married young and were expected to birth heirs, but being a changeling they were barren. The king and his court were impatient with the young changeling and grew cruel with them for failing the crown. Fearing the crown would kill them for their failure, the changeling went to our Lady Creator and pleaded for a solution, swearing it was the only way to fulfil their mission to the Order.”

“That just sounds like a children’s story,” Kozlóv grunted, “There’s no names or proof.”

“The Lady took mercy on the young changeling and told them the ritual to reverse the curse, but warned them it had to be preformed each time they wanted to bear again,” Scaarbach continued, ignoring his scepticism, “This ritual was gruesome business, they had to consume a concoction made with the belly of a she-wolf and belladonna, and burn a lock of their hair under a blood moon.”

“Humans have killed changelings for less,” Kozlóv made a face.

“They did it in secret,” Scaarbach shrugged, “A year later they bore the king a son and heir, followed by several others. As the boys grew they plotted against the king, and the eldest struck him on the battlefield, taking his crown for himself. With the so called queen ruling from the shadows, watching over her brood of human spawn.”

“And what happened when they noticed she didn’t age?” Kozlóv wondered.

“I don’t know. It only says that this changeling guided their dynasty for three hundred years before they were forced into hiding at the Order’s request,” Scaarbach shrugged, “I thought it was fanciful nonsense obviously, but then…,” he paused, thinking of some things other members of the Order had mentioned in passing, “It really _would_ be a mission asked only of the best of us, wouldn’t it?”

“No,” Kozlóv shook his head, “They’d never let us make babies, even human ones. It’s better this way,” he frowned, “And I doubt that ritual would work for us anyway.”

“It’s still interesting,” Scaarbach sighed wistfully, “It makes me wonder what _else_ the Order has done that I’ve never even imagined.”

“Best not to ask questions—” Kozlóv turned the page over, seemingly engrossed in the book.

The two sat in warm silence, both pretending to ignore the other. If anyone were watching they would have seemed to be entirely too engrossed in their own affairs to have possibly been conducting any form of conversation.

“— but I’m glad you’re having fun in changeling school,” Kozlóv added, breaking the silence that had fallen between them.

“Not as much fun as _you’ve_ been having,” Scaarbach muttered before he could stop himself.

“Who said I was having fun?” Kozlóv chuckled.

“Sasha, I can smell it on you,” Scaarbach grimaced, “Why were you drinking? You don’t even _like_ wine.”

“Oh, that was—” Kozlóv face wrinkled like an apple in the sun, “— the vicar man in the chapel.”

“Mathers,” Scaarbach’s mood fell several metres, and lay prone in crumpled heap between the ravine of memories.

“Yes,” Kozlóv stuck his tongue out in childish disgust, “ _Vile_ stuff, but I was just being polite.”

“You’re the Owl of the Forgotten Trinket,” Scaarbach glared at the changeling in complete mystification, “You don’t have to be polite to _Mathers_.”

“Ah yes,” Kozlóv shrugged, “But we were having a fun time, he’s a very strange little man.”

Scaarbach felt something churn in his stomach, it wasn’t jealousy, “Oh,” he gulped, consumed with the sheer unadulterated terror at the thought of Mathers having anything to do with _his_ Sasha, “I’m glad you had a fun time when you were not having fun.”

“Ha!” Kozlóv laughed, “That is… exactly what happened,” he smirked to himself knowingly, “He was trying to… well… uh… you know?”

“That’s your business,” Scaarbach replied, staring hopelessly at a diagram of an eye as his imagination took him on a horrific journey.

Kozlóv chuckled, “It _nearly_ worked, I even had my… uh…,” he made a mysterious gesture with his hand, “Well until he ruined it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Scaarbach lied.

“Yes well,” Kozlóv sighed, “I’m not a silver spoon man but I just don’t think those jokes are funny.”

“Mathers would _love_ Wölfin,” Scaarbach nodded, curiosity got the better of him, “What did he say?” 

Kozlóv crossed his arms against his chest, “It was about you. I swear that man either hates you or is infatuated.” 

“Ah,” Scaarbach looked at his inky hands, “You shouldn’t have gotten offended on my behalf.” 

“Oh I didn’t,” Kozlóv growled, “It was also about me.” 

“Soft,” Scaarbach smirked, unable to resist. 

Kozlóv exhaled, “I need to get going, thank you for… uh…,” he frowned as though he couldn’t figure out what Scaarbach had done exactly. 

“Listening?” Scaarbach suggested. 

“No, not that, well yes,” Kozlóv shrugged, “Thank you for actually being funny.” 

“Thank you,” Scaarbach beamed, genuinely glad to hear it, despite how useless of a skill it was to him. 

Kozlóv grinned back, his eyes crinkling like the world’s happiest baked apple, “The blotch of ink on your forehead suits you.” 

The beams fell from Scaarbach’s sun and he stared back in cold self-awareness, “Ah.” 

“Oh and—” Kozlóv sniffed, reaching into his breast pocket and pulling out a scrap of paper, “— good luck with your studies,” he handed it over and stood up.

Scaarbach watched him leave, his eye caught on the way his ill-fitting coat clearly pinched at the shoulders. He glanced down at the paper. It was an open invitation to his guest room, citing the location and suggested time of night. Immediately tucking the note into his pocket, Scaarbach stared up at the high ceiling, his eyes wide with a deep unspoken dread. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh~ I really loved writing this chapter for reasons I hope are apparent.


	22. The Liability of Bastards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being summoned to the glasshouse, Scaarbach finds his actions and motivations in question once again. After defending his honour, Scaarbach is horrified to discover that one of his most guarded secrets falls into the hands of the one he’s most afraid and he has to think quick if he doesn’t want to be disgraced.
> 
> CW: Unfounded Sexual Accusations Very Gently Implied, Kidnapping of a Child Referenced, Death Threats, Mentions of Blackmail, Drug References, Drug Use, Violence

It had been an hour, yet still Scaarbach sat waiting outside the greenhouse with his notebook in hand. It wasn’t especially obvious to him why Catwadder had requested his presence in the greenhouse of all places, but as she was the Harpy, it was best not to question. He passed the time drawing his view of Castlemain House, still somewhat enamoured with the level of detail others apparently took for granted. He lost himself in the architecture of the house, the stone and creeping ivy, the enormous windows, the turrets, and chimneys that seemed to smoke at random.

“Good afternoon,” Catwadder sung out cheerfully, “I’d bore you with reasons of my delay but I doubt you care about the nuance of titles and wills,” after the death of her late husband, this was unsurprising.

Scaarbach hurriedly stashed his notebook into his waistcoat, hoping she hadn’t noticed, “Good afternoon, my lady,” he threw in an errant bow just in case the occasion called for it.

“Gerbrander and Bodkin will be here shortly,” Catwadder reassured him, “Follow me into the greenhouse, we are about to have a very—” she paused, adjusting the black bonnet that finished off her mourning dress like a dash of poison in a glass of wine, “— _delicate_ conversation.”

“Does the Cockatrice know of this?” Scaarbach asked, icicles of dread forming somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach.

“Not yet, but she may in due time,” Catwadder smirked, jingling a key she pulled from her sleeve.

Scaarbach tried not to stare, there was something of the Lady about the way her lip curled, “Do I owe an apology, my lady?”

Her brow rose as she unlocked the great door to the greenhouse, “You may owe a great deal more than that, I’m afraid.”

“May I ask if it’s about money, my lady?” Scaarbach was beginning to find her choice of location suddenly quite alarming.

“Is it about money, Mr. Bach?” Catwadder asked, somehow managing to sound almost innocent, “Here, please sit,” she gestured at a bench, a great fern on either end.

Scaarbach did as he was told, a thin smile spreading across his face as the certain dampness informed him on his mistake, “Ah.”

Catwadder grinned wickedly, “It’s only water,” she said, taking the bench opposite him.

“Shit!” a voice exclaimed from the distance, “Uh, ah… my lady Warburton, we didn’t hear you come in,” Gerbrander offered sheepishly, everything but his shoulder hidden by a distant palm.

“I won’t ask what you were doing, goodness knows I do not care,” Catwadder said with a thoroughly bemused expression, “But how on earth did you manage to get in without a key?”

“The… there is a panel loose by the rear, my Lady Warburton,” Bodkin stammered, stepping out from behind the palm and smoothing his hair nervously, “A fox or badger’s doing I think.”

“In fact I’m pretty sure I stepped in badger’s doings,” Gerbrander moaned, fixing his collars.

Catwadder turned to Scaarbach and smiled, the tip of her nose wrinkling in an unspoken secret shared, “Now that we are all here, let us get to the business at hand.”

Gerbrander and Bodkin hurriedly sat on either side of Catwadder, their faces betraying damp discoveries of their own, “Yes of course,” they echoed.

“Now, I don’t normally find this kind of line of questioning agreeable,” Catwadder began, “However as you are a guest of the North-Western branch of the Order, rather than a _member_ , I felt it… less troublesome to do it myself personally,” she removed the bonnet from her head and sat it on her lap, “Would you say in the few years you have been under our roof, that you have gotten along quite well with the humans by your side?”

Scaarbach frowned, “I have tried to be on my best behaviour, my lady.”

Catwadder’s brow rose again, “One should hope so under _these_ particular circumstances, the alternative would be… most unpleasant for you, I expect.”

“I don’t understand, my lady,” Scaarbach said.

“May I try to explain the situation, my Lady Warburton?” Gerbrander asked.

“Very well,” Catwadder nodded but once.

“Mr. Bach,” Gerbrander smiled thinly, “You maybe interested to learn that a member of the household has been discovered to be with child.”

“Oh,” Scaarbach’s stomach fell, a small part of him fearing for young Sally despite himself.

“This member of the household is unmarried—” Gerbrander didn’t break his steady gaze, “— but after questioning she informed us that _you_ are the father.”

“What!” Scaarbach leapt to his feet, “That’s impossible!”

Gerbrander shook his head, “She told us that you mean to marry and move further into the city, that you had promised to support her and what remains of her family. That you had come to an agreement.”

“That was not the agreement!” Scaarbach exclaimed.

“There was an agreement?” Bodin’s voice was icy and distant, and he was not asking a question, “That there is _truth_ to this, Ottokar—”

“She swore me to secrecy, that is all,” Scaarbach wondered which of the three would kill him first, “I asked who the father _really_ was but of course she wouldn’t tell me.”

“The question is not regarding the parentage of the child,” Catwadder sighed, “Truly, that is not the issue, the Order understands that you couldn’t possibly be guilty of this crime.”

“Oh no,” Scaarbach exhaled, realising exactly what they were accusing him of, “Please, I swear on the majesty of our Lady Creator, Sally Baker has no reason to think it was me.”

“If I find out you’re lying I swear I _will_ kill you,” Bodkin replied coldly.

“Gormlaith wouldn’t allow it,” Catwadder fixed a ribbon on her black mourning bonnet, “At least, not without a formal trial.”

“If you are innocent,” Gerbrander rubbed his chin thoughtfully, “Why do you suppose she would lie about your intentions.”

Scaarbach winced, “Miss Baker is under the delusion I am a man of honour. She probably thought I would go along with her lie to save her the shame.”

“The human world is stupid, I think we all can agree on this,” Catwadder nodded, “Yet I’m sure none of us are so naïve as to blame young Miss Baker for her situation. In another house she would face a dire punishment, she has every reason to manipulate the cards to her favour.”

“What will happen to her, my Lady Warburton?” Bodkin asked, “If it’s a matter of money I can find more, you know I have my ways, it need not be a problem.”

Catwadder took a deep breath, “I have decided that she will be sent to Glastonbury Arms—” she paused as though considering her options, “— or perhaps Netherneuk Cottage until the child is old enough.”

“And when the child is old enough, my Lady?” Bodkin bit his lip, his eyes wide behind his narrow spectacles.

“Mother and child will return to Castlemain House,” Catwadder looked Bodkin carefully, “In the dead of night, the child will be taken and sent to the Darklands. The Janus Order will have a new egg and Miss Baker will be free to live in the house for as long as she desires.”

Bodkin removed his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose in his agitation, “If that is the will of the Order, I have no reason to press the matter further, Lady Warburton.”

“What about the father?” Scaarbach wondered.

“Oh,” Catwadder stood up and tied her bonnet under her chin, “If we ever find the culprit he’ll be dismissed on the spot. Society may work on different rules, but in this house _I_ reign queen,” she took a deep breath, “Very well, I am happy regarding this situation for now. On an unrelated note, Scaarbach, you wouldn’t happened to know who has been stealing gravesand from my private chambers, would you?”

“No, I… I had no idea you even _had_ gravesand here, my Lady Warburton,” Scaarbach stammered.

Catwadder nodded sadly to herself, “I will take your word for it,” she shot a glance at Bodkin and then back at Scaarbach, “It might be wise to have a quiet word with the young lady and explain you won’t be marrying her, despite her insistence to the contrary.”

Scaarbach nodded, bleeding relief, “Yes, of course, my Lady Warburton.”

“And from then on you won’t so much as breathe in her direction,” Bodkin stood up, his face a picture of murderous intent.

Scaarbach held out his hand, deadly serious, “I swear it.”

Bodkin looked at his hand, considered it for a moment and then shook it, “Very well, but understand I trusted you and that trust has been broken.”

“I am… sorry Sebastian,” Scaarbach frowned, “I don’t know if it helps, but if you find that human’s name,” he looked around to ensure Catwadder had moved on, “I want in,” he whispered.

Bodkin smirked, “How do you know what I’m planning?”

“Apart from the money business, you’ve been my only real friend here,” Scaarbach replied, lowering his voice for the first part.

Bodkin patted him on the shoulder, “How pitiful.”

⁂

Scaarbach yawned, opening the vicarage with his spare hand as his other lugged the pile of mended robes he had spent the day repairing. It was dark inside, seemingly empty, the familiar scent of dust and wine clinging to the air. It was his last errand of the day before his evening studies with Bodkin. He lay the robes on the dining table and snuck over to the old organ. With a dramatic sweep, Scaarbach sat down and ran his fingers lightly over the keys, playing the first few notes of a melody that could only be described as sacrilegious at best. He stopped, thinking he heard something like a growl. Silence followed. Scaarbach repeated the tune, slightly more cautiously than before.

“Stop that—” a trollish voice grumbled, “— _infernal_ racket.”

Scaarbach gulped, “What changeling doesn’t like music?”

“This one!” Mathers lumbered forward from the shadows, the dim light from the candles making his stone glitter and glint like jewels.

“You’re unsanctioned,” Scaarbach said, swallowing his building fear.

Mathers growled and then switched back to his human form, “Scaarbach,” he said, “Scaarbach,” he drew out each sound as though saying them for the first time.

“That’s what I call myself,” Scaarbach agreed, trying not to let it be too obvious he was eyeing his escape route.

“Would you like a tipple, my friend?” Mathers asked.

“Of wine or gravesand?” Scaarbach chuckled nervously.

“Both,” Mathers replied, “They… mix well.”

“You’ve been… drinking… the gravesand?” Scaarbach wondered if he could get away with dashing for the door.

“It works better,” Mathers grinned, “You’d understand if you tried it.”

“Did you give Kozlóv gravesand?” Scaarbach’s heart pounded in his chest, as desperate to escape the situation as the rest of him.

“Kozlóv doesn’t know how to have fun,” Mathers glowered, “But you do, don’t you Scaarbach?”

Scaarbach nodded slowly, “That’s right,” he said, trying to sound as conversational as possible.

“Aren’t you _bored_ in this bloody house?” Mathers asked, “This is no way for a changeling to live.”

“I am—” Scaarbach gulped, “— losing my mind.”

Mathers eyes lit up with glee, “Then join me and tell me stories,” he pulled out a bottle of wine from his person and took a swig, “Bodkin be damned.”

“What kind of stories?” Scaarbach eyed the bottle as though it were going to explode.

“Fun ones,” Mathers grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him forward, “Come on, entertain me.”

Scaarbach let Mathers drag him into a back room, his mind racing as to how to escape. He stepped backwards, spinning around to face an old but comfortable looking bed. His eyes darted over the chest of drawers and cabinets and wardrobes, and fell on a large mirror that had been shattered recently. Little bits of glass still lay on the rug on the floor. Scaarbach took a deep breath of stale, damp air, and heard a click. He spun around again and realised it had been the lock on the door. He had made a mistake. A very bad mistake. He should have ran when he had the chance. There was no telling what Mathers, in his drug-addled state, had in mind and Scaarbach would have given anything to not find out.

“Drink it,” Mathers said, thrusting the bottle forward, “There’s no gravesand in this one.”

Scaarbach wasn’t sure if he believed him but his body seemed to have a mind of its own, “Oh it’s… not bad,” he admitted, hoping the fruity taste was a sign it wasn’t tainted.

Mathers threw himself on his bed like a romantic hero, “Tell me again about how that captain died.”

“Oh,” Scaarbach sat on the very edge of the bed, pushing aside a great dusty old book that had seen better days, “Aren’t you sick of that story?”

“No,” Mathers shook his head, his eyes bulging as they glowed from within, “I want to know _everything_ that happens when a changeling loses their stone.”

“She was—” Scaarbach paused to remember, “— _so_ tired, and _so_ angry. I couldn’t… see her well, but I’ll never forget the look in her eyes. It was like she had already died,” he looked across at Mathers to ensure he was saying what the man wanted to hear, “But she still screamed when… Kozlóv—”

“You were afraid of her,” Mathers said, transfixed in his own imagination, “But you tried to kill her.”

Scaarbach grimaced, “She was stronger than me, and she had dogs.”

“But you wanted her dead,” Mathers insisted.

“She had lost her stone,” Scaarbach didn’t like his tone at all, “Someone had to do it.”

“Because stoneless traitors deserve to die,” Mathers nodded, his eyes gleaming with murder and scandal, “Give me the wine,” he said, edging closer.

Scaarbach flew to his feet, “I uh—” he looked at the wine in his hand and thrust it forward, “Take it, just take it.”

Mathers grabbed the bottle and took a great gulp, “You’re afraid of me,” he said coldly, “It’s fun.”

“I’m glad you find me so amusing,” Scaarbach chuckled desperately, backing into the locked door.

“Do you know what I like to do for fun?” Mathers asked, somehow managing to glower over him despite being more or less the same height.

“I can imagine,” Scaarbach squeaked, he didn’t have to imagine.

Mathers struck him across the side of the face, sending his spectacles flying in an unknown direction, “Don’t move,” he said, his breath thick with the smell of wine and something else.

Scaarbach glared at him desperately, his heart caught somewhere in his throat, “That was nothing,” he insisted.

“You’re right,” Mathers grinned, pawing at something Scaarbach couldn’t see.

“What is that?” Scaarbach tried to look at the object but he was suddenly dizzy and couldn’t tear his eyes away from the malicious look Mathers flashed him.

“It’s just a little fun,” Mathers grinned, “Don’t move.”

Scaarbach yelled in pain as something cold and metal pressed into his skin, fighting and failing to keep his form in a human state. He looked up Mathers, panting, his mind absolutely blank from fear.

“Hello again, my friend,” Mathers beamed, switching his form to match.

“How did you find out?” Scaarbach breathed, unable to raise his voice beyond a hoarse whisper.

“A little birdy told me,” Mathers winked, “For a price.”

“Bodkin!” Scaarbach tried to wriggle out of the way, “Ach, this is because of Miss Baker!”

“You were betrayed, little Beetling,” Mathers said, holding him up by the horn, “And I’m bored. So you’re going to tell me a little story.”

Scaarbach tried to let his body fall limp, “What story?” he hissed, hating himself and everything else in the world.

“You’re going to tell me how a pathetic, stoneless _waste_ like yourself made it to the surface world,” Mathers growled.

“I can’t remember,” Scaarbach whispered.

“Liar!” Mathers hissed, “You should have died in the provings.”

“If—” Scaarbach gulped, “— if I tell you, will you let me go?”

Mathers lifted him up higher, “Maybe—”

“I uh…,” Scaarbach closed his eye tight, trying to remember how it happened, “We were high up. I let the others fight it out. I - I ran from them when I could, one of them fell, the other turned on me. I thought I was going to die, I tore into them like a beast and I - I drove them to the edge. But we didn’t see the other changeling hanging off the edge, they grabbed my opponent by the leg and pulled them down. They both fell… a long way, and I,” he had never said the words aloud, “I was chosen,” it all seemed like it happened to someone else.

“I knew it!” Mathers hissed, “I knew you were unworthy.”

“You’re right,” Scaarbach strained against the pain radiating from the base of his horn, “You’re absolutely right.”

“Pathetic,” Mathers spat, “You won’t defend yourself, even now.”

“What would be the point?” Scaarbach pawed at his horn.

“It’s more fun if you beg for your life,” Mathers laughed humourlessly.

“Please don’t kill me,” Scaarbach whimpered, resigning himself to play the role of the mouse until he could find his escape, “You said you’d let me go.”

Mathers lifted him even higher into the air, “Oh I’m going to let you go for now,” Scaarbach fell to the ground with a thud, “But I _am_ going to kill you after I’ve had my fun, Beetling.”

Scaarbach spotted where his spectacles had fallen and made a wild grab for them, “What if I tell the Cockatrice?” he asked, watching in vain as Mathers crushed them with a heavy foot.

“But you’re stoneless, my friend,” Mathers replied, “She’ll thank me for doing her dirty work.”

“Oh,” Scaarbach didn’t like his chances, “Can’t we make a deal?”

“A deal?” Mathers grinned, “What kind of deal?”

“Bodkin blackmailed me. I paid him… most of my salary so he wouldn’t tell you about who I really am,” Scaarbach winced, “Would you consi——”

“No!” Mathers loomed over him, “I don’t care about money.”

Scaarbach switched into his human form, pawing the ground for something, _anything_ that could be used as a weapon, “What if I promise to never tell anyone that _you’re_ the one stealing Catwadder’s gravesand?”

“Why should I trust you?” Mathers grunted.

“I’ll never tell anyone about—” Scaarbach gulped, gripping his hand around a piece of broken glass, “— anything, not a word,” he nodded, trying to coax the addled changeling into agreement, “I could be your little secret.”

“What kind of secret are you suggesting?” Mathers grinned.

“If Bodkin told you my secret, that means he wants me dead,” Scaarbach pulled himself to his feet, “And if Bodkin wants me dead, that means he might beat you to it. And you you don’t want Bodkin to spoil your fun, do you?”

“You want me to protect you from Bodkin?” Mathers laughed, “Or you’ll tell Catwadder about the gravesand?”

“Unless you kill me now, but you don’t want to do that,” Scaarbach said, pretending as though his hands weren’t visibly shaking.

“But I can still have my fun?” Mathers asked.

“I’m only soft on the outside,” Scaarbach insisted.

Mathers burst into malicious laughter, “Oh we will see about that,” he unlocked the door and graciously opened it, “Now run.”

Scaarbach didn’t need to be told twice. He bolted out the door, crashing into the frame, spun into the halls, bounced off a wall and tore his way to the entrance of the vicarage without a moment’s thought. The pebbles crunched underfoot as he ran towards Castlemain House, desperate for somewhere, anywhere to hide. He paced up and down the foyer, frantically trying to remember where Bodkin had hidden his weapons when he had first arrived. They were in Bodkin’s quarters. Scaarbach groaned, realising what had to be done and hurriedly made his way up the stairs.

Sounds of yelling echoed out of the room and Scaarbach immediately wanted to turn around and find some other means of defending himself. It was Bodkin and Gerbrander, arguing about some sort of book.

“For the last time, I didn’t take it!” Bodkin insisted.

“Then where is it, Sebastian?” Gerbrander spat, angrier than Scaarbach had ever heard him.

“I don’t know, I promise I don’t!” Bodkin yelled, “I couldn’t care less about that damned book!”

“If a human has it, it could destroy us!” Gebrander growled, “Gormlot is going to kill me!”

“No, it will be okay, just think—” Bodkin exhaled audibly, “— where did you last see it?”

“In my office,” Gebrander grunted.

“And whoever took it must be a changeling right?” Bodkin sounded as though he were clutching at straws, “They took the gaggletack as well, after all.”

“If it wasn’t you, it was that little south-easterner,” Gerbrander groaned, “You’re the only ones who come near my office daily.”

“Scaarbach?” Bodkin exclaimed, “What would… oh… actually I think he might have reason to take that book.”

Scaarbach ground his teeth angrily. It wasn’t enough to betray him to Mathers, Bodkin was going to betray him to Gerbrander as well.

“Where is that little shit? Shouldn’t he be here?” Gerbrander slammed open the door, “You! What have you done with my book?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Scaarbach backed into the wall behind him.

“Then where is it?” Gerbrander barked.

“How would I know?” Scaarbach tried to hide that his hands were already shaking.

Gerbrander frowned down at him critically, “Where are your spectacles?”

Scaarbach grimaced, “I —” he couldn’t possibly tell the truth, “— I lost them,” he muttered.

“How?” Gerbrander asked.

“I was delivering something to the vicarage but I… I sneezed and I couldn’t find them on the ground,” Scaarbach lied, “I looked everywhere but they just weren’t there!”

Gerbrander nodded, “A similar thing happened to Sebastian in the streets of London once,” he exhaled, “I am going to check the library.”

“I hope you find your things,” Scaarbach smiled weakly, “Maybe they’re hiding with my spectacles?” the memory of the dusty old book and gaggletack in vicarage bedroom slapped him across the face.

“Maybe,” Gerbrander grunted, heading in the other direction.

Sheepishly, Scaarbach made his way into Bodkin’s quarters and sat in his usual position on the chaise longue. Bodkin slammed the door closed wordlessly and sat in a huff at his desk.

“Where were you?” Bodkin asked.

“I lost my spectacles, Mr. Bodkin,” Scaarbach muttered, “I can’t afford to replace them.”

“That’s hardly my fault is it?” Bodkin sighed, flipping through his ledger.

“Mr. Bodkin, I want to discuss our agreement,” Scaarbach snapped angrily, realising the blackmail was without purpose.

“Oh?” Bodkin asked, “Have you decided you’re brave enough to handle Mathers after all?”

Scaarbach stared in Bodkin’s direction, his anger deflating as he realised that Bodkin wouldn’t have asked that question had he been the one to betray him, “What do you do with the money after you’ve taken it?” he offered.

“If you must know,” Bodkin sighed, “That money goes towards young Susan and the other little ones. Castlemain House couldn’t afford to keep them otherwise.”

“Oh,” Scaarbach exhaled, burying his face in his hands, “Forget I said anything.”

“Ottokar,” Bodkin began, “Are you aware your hand is bleeding?”

Scaarbach absently looked at his hand, “There must have been some glass in the stones. It’s dry now.”

“Clean up, I won’t have you bleeding over my books,” Bodkin sighed, thrusting out the basin of clean water.

“I can’t afford it,” Scaarbach muttered, “Just let me read a couple more pages and let me go to bed.”

“Nonsense, my good chap,” Bodkin insisted, “Consider it commiserations over your fallen spectacles.”

⁂

It was late and the humans had fallen asleep, but Scaarbach could not allow himself to do so. Instead he gripped the shears he had stolen from Bodkin’s quarters when he wasn’t looking, his eyes intently on the door. He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to agree to anything with Mathers and Scaarbach wasn’t even sure if the changeling had any intention of honouring it.

He gulped breathlessly, his hands shaking, unable to stop his mind from fixating on what had happened in the vicarage that evening. He was going to die he was sure of it, and there was absolutely no way he could prevent it. Pride dictated he could make no mention of what had happened to Kozlóv or Bodkin, or even Gerbrander, and fear dictated he’d rather die than let anyone else learn of his stupid, foolish mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy this certainly was a chapter alright.


	23. Fear is a Waiting Spectre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Changelings are born into darkness and fear. Before a changeling can infiltrate the surface world, they must first prove themselves worthy of ascension. After years of hiding who he used to be, Scaarbach can hide no more. With no friends or allies he has to think of his feet, but just when things begin to look like the end, the first rule of the Janus Order comes into play.
> 
> CW: Violence, Injury, Stereotypical Cult Shit, the Creation of a Changeling

Silence echoed in the halls of Castlemain house. It was late and the humans had long since gone to their beds. But the changelings had official business to attend and the _expensive_ candles had been lit. Scaarbach stood in the back row, scratching at the itchy red robes he had donned over his clothes, and squinting to see literally anything at all from behind the domino mask he’d grabbed hastily by the door.

At the centre of the gathered changelings stood Gormlot and Catwadder, he couldn’t of course see them but he knew they were there, dressed much like the others with their beautifully carved masks and scarlet robes embroidered with golden thread, the fetch held between them and bathing everyone is a soft green light. Feet shuffled. Someone coughed. Everyone waiting anxiously for the moment. Young Molly had been taken from the cradle besides Sally’s bed and it was a matter of urgency the mother never notice the absence of her child. But the final process took time, and so, the changelings waited.

The crowd edged inwards, almost as one, and everyone drew a collective breath. From this Scaarbach surmised, a sign had been seen. He pushed forward, eager to see a glimpse of the changeling’s first moments on the surface. There was soft thunk as the young thing fell the short distance to the ground, and made a soft growl as they noticed the fifteen or so masked changelings that gathered around them.

“Impure,” Gormlot said, “You have sworn the vows of loyalty and completed the final rite?”

“Just tell me what I have to do, my stone is strong,” the young changeling insisted, “I will fight, I will kill, I will suckle upon human person, whatever you ask.”

“I am known as the Cockatrice, the Grand Commandant of the Janus Order,” Gormlot continued, “From this moment on you will be known as ‘Molly Baker,’ and the year of your surface is 1802.”

“Understood, Grand Commandant,” the young changeling replied.

“In due time you will be allowed to choose your own codename as a fully fledged operative, by until then you will use ‘Baker’ for such purposes,” Gormlot said.

“Understood, Grand Commandant,” the young changeling agreed.

“Everyone you see before you is your superior and you will show them due respect, do you understand?” Gormlot may have made a sweeping gesture, but if that wasn’t the case, Scaarbach couldn’t see either way.

“Understood, Grand Commandant,” Baker replied, “Uh… Grand Commandant?”

“Very well,” Gormlot sighed, “I will answer one question, we don’t have much time to spare.”

“Is this it?” Baker seemed hesitant, almost doubtful, “Am I… did I make it? This… isn’t the Darklands any more?”

“The Darklands are behind you, my young egg,” Catwadder insisted, “You don’t have to go back there again.”

“So I did it,” Baker said, almost to themselves, “I did it!” they yelled in defiant glee, “I’m here!”

The Janus Order shuffled awkwardly as the young egg dissolved in maniacal laughter, all too familiar with the initial euphoric moment when they too had thought it had once been over.

⁂

His footsteps echoed in the secret tunnels that marked the bowels of Castlemain House. Scaarbach didn’t dare look behind himself, certain Mathers trailed closely behind, but it was late at night and every fibre of his being was exhausted. He stopped, ducking in a hidden dead end and stopped to catch his breath, and most importantly, listen. There was silence, punctuated by the odd droplet of water that fell from above. Scaarbach pawed in his pockets, brandishing the table knife he had taken from the Vicarage’s kitchen in his panic. Still silence. He sunk to his heels, leaning against the damp wall behind him, and exhaled.

Curfew had passed hours earlier but Scaarbach had not been so lucky. Mathers was nothing, he refused to give in to man’s games. It was easy enough to hide the incidental cuts or bruises, but his absence was not something as readily looked over. Scaarbach rested his head in hands, bemoaning having to make up some lie or another come morning. Satisfied he was truly alone, Scaarbach crept his way through the tunnels, one hand tracing the wall beside him and the other gripping the stolen knife tightly. There was a sound. A sniff. Another sniff. It was probably another trap, but to Scaarbach it sounded the world like… someone crying.

Scaarbach approached gingerly, ready to defend himself if he had to, “H - hallo?” he asked, his voice echoing far further than he’d like.

The crying stopped and there was the sound of someone scrambling to their feet, “Who’s there?” a voice asked.

“Who are you?” Scaarbach demanded, still not certain he hadn’t fallen into a trap, “Why are you here?”

“I am unimportant,” the stranger said, “Leave me alone.”

“I would but why are you here?” Scaarbach asked.

“I lost a friend, if you must know,” the stranger spat, “Everyone leaves in the end.”

Scaarbach took another step forward, “That is life, is it not?”

The stranger sighed, “Have you ever loved someone _so_ much that their absence made your heart feel as though you were already in hell?”

“No?” Scaarbach shuffled awkwardly.

“Consider yourself lucky, uh…,” the stranger paused, “Mr. Bach, isn’t it?”

Scaarbach stepped back, “Who are you?”

“A strange and loveless man,” the stranger laughed bitterly, “You keep secrets, don’t you friend?”

“Why do you ask?” Scaarbach wondered, suspecting again that he had fallen into a trap.

“The friend I lost was dearer to me than words can say,” the stranger sighed, “But friends lost to marriage are a special kind of lost and I am stuck here, feeling a special kind of hopeless.”

Scaarbach chuckled, “Ah, so you have the… uh how do you say… a love sickness?”

“Ah,” the stranger exhaled, “Terminally I’m afraid.”

“It is passed curfew,” Scaarbach muttered, “I should get back,” he made to leave but the stranger grabbed his coat and pulled him close.

“Stay with me a little longer, if you will—” the stranger asked, his voice full of aching desperation, “— because I ask?”

Scaarbach sighed, “I am already late,” he tried to explain.

The stranger tried to take hold of his hand, “What’s this?” he asked, his hand brushing the metal of the table knife.

Scaarbach threw it into the darkness in a panic, “Nothing.”

The metal clanged loudly on the damp stone floor and Scaarbach immediately realised his mistake. He stepped back, hoping to escape before it was too late.

“Did… you see something in the distance?” the stranger asked, “It looked like the eyes of some beast.”

Laughter echoed up the tunnels, “Ottokar couldn’t see an inch in front of him,” Mathers said, calmly walking up to meet them as though they had gathered in front of the little chapel after a service.

“Vicar!” the stranger gasped, “What are you doing down here, my god chap?”

There was a calculating silence perhaps only Scaarbach would have noticed. “I merely wondered what had happened to my friend,” Mathers explained, “I was in the middle of rehearsing tomorrow’s service and my friend quite rudely disappeared. However, my cellar door was open and let’s just say I had a little hunch,” his words were as cordial as they were false.

“Indeed?” the stranger replied.

Scaarbach forced himself to chuckle, “I couldn’t take another word of that—” he clicked his fingers absently, “— hell fire and brimstone.”

“That is because _you_ are a sinner, my German friend,” Mathers grabbed his arm in the darkness, gripping Scaarbach tightly.

Scaarbach tried to pull away without the stranger noticing, “It is passed my curfew, Vicar.

The stranger laughed, “Were you holding poor Mr. Bach hostage while you preached to him? You should let the sinner go.”

“And let you corrupt him with _your_ sin, Francis,” Mathers replied sharply, “I think not.”

Scaarbach frowned, the only Francis he knew was the lord of the house, “Lord Sinclair!” he exclaimed, “Why didn’t you say?” 

“When caught in a moment of indignity, the prospect of being no one in particular suddenly becomes altogether more appealing,” Lord Sinclair muttered.

⁂

Flashes of green and an unmistakable smell of goblins mixed with the breathless anxiety of youth and the ache of exhaustion. Something crushed down from above and the distinct odour of wine and something else breathed into his face.

Scaarbach’s eyes immediately flashed open. An ominous shadow glowered over him, sat astraddle as he lay in his cot in the dormitory. Something glinted in the light of the changeling’s eyes, and bolts of instinct shot through Scaarbach’s body like bolts of lightning. He grabbed his assailant’s wrists, every muscle shaking with tension, and struggled to tear the blade from his hand, kicking wildly as he tried to escape from under the bedding.

Scaarbach threw his weight forward, forcing the blade, and the hand that gripped it so tightly, back into his attacker’s face. Mathers growled furiously and struck back with more strength than a human of his size should have been able to muster. Something in Scaarbach lurched but he rolled onto his knees to the floor and began to scramble out of the dormitory before the humans awoke en-masse and made the situation so much worse. He slipped on something wet and fought Mathers back as the addled changeling lashed out again and again. Scaarbach backed away, returning to his cot, and snatched his stolen shears the second he remembered them. He struck out at Mathers, trying to drive him in the direction of the open door, catching him on the cheek with a yelp.

“Get back to bed!” a voice bellowed.

Mathers dropped his blade and took off immediately, running up the halls and into the deeper shadows of the house, but Scaarbach froze on the spot, gripped by fear and indecision.

“What’s going on?” another human asked.

The humans had heard them. They had awoken and were going to ask more questions. They were going to see Scaarbach at the heart of everything and he was going to be the one to get blamed. He ran, gripping his shears like a lifeline and stumbled out the door. It was difficult. Far more difficult than it should have been. He clutched at his side, trying to ignore whatever it was that ran annoyingly down his thigh, his one goal to make it to the upper levels away from human eyes.

Instinct pulled him forward, convinced he was being followed, and every fibre of his being went into making his way to somewhere safe, somewhere he could assess the situation without further threat. He pawed at the bookcase that marked the way into the hidden passageways upstairs, desperately trying to locate the lever or switch wherever it was hiding.

A light shone in Scaarbach’s face and he flinched back involuntarily, brandishing the shears as he tried to see where his assailant was hiding behind the light. A voice said something, a deep voice, familiar but unintelligible. His attacker stepped towards him, completely ignoring Scaarbach’s warning growls, light swinging as he made his way up the staircase. Scaarbach waited until he got to the top most stair and ran forward, using the shears to knock the lantern out of other changeling’s hands before a sudden sharp pain forced him to his knees.

He threw himself backwards, scrambling to get away as he snarled viciously, kicking with his feet. His assailant kicked at his hand, sending the shears flying into the darkness, and Scaarbach looked up into four glowing eyes. He tried to pull himself to his feet but his attacker held him tightly by the arm, twisting it behind his back. The other changeling approached, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Calm yourself!” Gormlot hissed, “Bonvisi, have you got him?”

Scaarbach struggled to escaped, but Bonvisi’s grip was too tight.

“Of course, my lady,” Bonvisi grunted.

“Good. Take him to my court,” Gormlot sniffed, “I am going to fetch Gerbrander.”

“Very good, my lady,” Bonvisi said.

“Scaarbach, what happen here?” Gormlot asked, gesturing at his side.

Scaarbach looked up at her blankly, not really know what to say.

Gormlot sighed, “I will speak with you later,” she turned and headed in the other direction, “There will be an immediate inquiry, summon _all_ the changelings excluding Baker.”

“That is going to be difficult under the circumstances, my lady,” Bonvisi replied.

“Get it done,” Gormlot sighed, disappearing into the darkness, “Sidonia is going to have my _head_.”

Bonvisi pulled Scaarbach’s arm harder, “I’m going to let you go, and you’re going to remain perfectly still, do you understand?” he hissed.

Scaarbach nodded.

Bonvisi relaxed his grip slightly, “We’re not enemies,” he insisted, “We serve the same purpose,” he released his grip, letting Scaarbach stand on his own.

Scaarbach gulped and backed away, barely able to draw a breath long enough to get air into his lungs.

“Lady Creator preserve us,” Bonvisi sighed, taking a ginger step towards him, “I told you to remain still.”

It took all his willpower and more, but Scaarbach forced himself to stay still, or at least, as still as his trembling hands would allow.

Bonvisi took another step forward, “I know I’m not the physician, but let me see the damage,” he said, “I won’t even touch you.”

Scaarbach frowned at the man, wondering if he had merely imagined the gentleness in his tone. Despite his better judgement, he pulled up the hem of his undershirt, waiting for the slightest sign that he had been tricked.

Bonvisi whistled, “You’re a bloody mess. Does it hurt?”

Scaarbach looked down, poking at a wound with a finger. It felt numb, but under the numbness was an underlying _sensation_ he couldn’t fully comprehend. Blood ran from his wounds down his leg, strangely he could feel that more. He looked back up at Bonvisi and shook his head.

With great difficulty, Bonvisi helped Scaarbach hobble towards the Cockatrice’s court, and escorted him towards the chaise longue. By the time Scaarbach had sat himself upon it, the doors to the court swung open and Dr. Tulp stormed towards them like a man on a mission, Bodkin and Gormlot close behind. He laid out his satchel next to Scaarbach and immediately got to work.

“What’s the damage?” Gerbrander demanded, angling his lantern over them to get a better view, “Oh.”

“He’s been stabbed,” Bonvisi sighed, “Several times by the look of it.”

“Hold this,” Gerbrander said, handing over his lantern, “Ottokar, it’s Ottokar isn’t it?” he said softly, “I’ve done this a thousand times, you’ll be fine once I’ve had a go at you.”

Scaarbach edged back further into the chaise longue, vehemently shaking his head.

“He won’t speak a word,” Bonvisi sighed.

Gerbrander edged closer, “Oh that’s nothing,” he said, “Come now, you’re no good to the Order like this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And you thought the last chapter was bad.


	24. Order Within the Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Janus Order is furious with the changeling Mathers for betraying their code, but Scaarbach is in no mood to gloat after his past was gutted from him for everyone to see. With the power in his hands, the other changelings expect him enact his wrath but Scaarbach has something else in his sights.
> 
> CW: Cult Business, Intimidation, Trauma Response, Discussions about Drug and Alcohol Usage, Blackmail and Debt Referenced

Scaarbach lay on the chaise longue of the Cockatrice’s court, shrinking into it as one by one, ominous masked and caped figures encircled him, each holding lanterns helpfully in their hands. By his side Dr. Tulp carefully stitched his wounds, and the butler Bonvisi held him down tightly to stop him from struggling. The Cockatrice herself sat neatly on the edge of the chaise, her golden mask sparkling like fire by the light of the lanterns.

“One of you,” Gormlot said, addressing the crowd that had gathered, “Is responsible for this mess,” she gestured at Scaarbach whose eyes darted anxiously between the masks, not knowing which of the shadows with pale, blobby masks for faces were an enemy.

The changelings shifted awkwardly, hushed whispers passing between them like letters exchanged between star-crossed lovers.

“I consider myself something of a mother to you all,” Gormlot continued, “I am not, of course, our Lady Creator, but it is my role to work as her representative in the flesh.”

A few changeling tittered nervously, as though they couldn’t tell if she were joking or not.

“So it is obvious to me when one of our number is missing,” Gormlot hissed, “Who is it? Who has not been not told?”

“Everyone was told,” Bodkin insisted, “I made sure of it.”

“Then _who_ is missing?” Gormlot asked.

The doors swung open and the final changeling ran to their position, already dressed in the cape and mask the formality of the situation required.

“So glad for you to join us,” Gormlot said dryly, “Where was I?” she paused, “Oh yes,” she stepped towards the changelings, pacing up and down their tanks, “Who among you have disappointed me?” she stopped in front of a changeling, “Was it you?” she growled using her trollish voice, “Or was it you?” she asked, turning her attention to the newcomer.

“You insult me,” Mathers spat.

Scaarbach looked up at the faces that towered over him, too tall, too close, their glowing eyes bleeding murderous intent. With all his strength he tried to escape, pulling against the changeling who held him down. He kicked, and he growled, and the thrashed and he wailed, desperate to escape from his certain death. Several more changelings emerged from the shadows, each taking a limb and holding him still.

Scaarbach lashed out with his teeth, trying to bite them to no avail. His hands shook against his will and fire flowed through his veins, through his stone, screaming at him that he was not safe. He had to run, he had to escape. He thrashed against his assailants, the changelings that mobbed him and held him down. They were stronger than him but still he pulled and flailed, frenzied in his terror, until he gave in, exhausted and resigned.

Gormlot stared at Scaarbach for a moment, the silence saying more than words ever could. “This doesn’t paint you in _good_ light, impure,” she said, turning her attention to Mathers.

“I mean no insubordination but you are jumping to conclusions, my lady,” Mathers growled.

“You must think I’m an idiot,” Gormlot spat. Carefully she removed Mathers mask and made a deep trollish noise of disgust. “I could see the blood on your shirt, impure!” Gormlot slapped his cheek hard and held up her hand for him to see, “What do you call this then?” she hissed.

“It’s…,” Mathers gulped.

“How did you get these cuts!” Gormlot demanded, “Tell me what happened, Mathers!”

Mathers growled deeply like a cornered beast, “I did you a favour!” he spat, “Stoneless traitors deserve to die!”

There was a flash of light and Gormlot shifted into her towering trollish form, “How dare you assume _my_ command!” she roared, “Do you have any idea the damage you’ve caused? Scaarbach is a ward of our branch of the Order, if the Dragon hears wind of this by my word there will be trouble! I could not care less what personal quarrel you have with this man, that does not give you right to stab members of the Order over your foolish hunches!”

Mathers cowered under her terrifying presence, “You don’t understand!” he hissed defiantly, “Ever since the Darklands he has been pathetic and weak! He only won his proving by technicality! He doesn’t belong on the surface with the Order! He’s a——”

“Fool!” Gormlot shoved him to the ground. The rest of the Order shuffled away awkwardly. “I _am_ the Order, I decide who belongs!”

“Interrogate him if you don’t believe me!” Mathers growled.

“I wouldn’t recommend that just yet, my medical opinion is that our ward is still far too regressed to be of any use,” Gerbrander said, still gripping Scaarbach’s wrist tightly lest he escaped.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Gormlot grunted, “Let him go.”

The changelings released Scaarbach. He curled in on himself on the chaise longue, not daring to run despite his every instinct demanding it.

Gormlot approached him, her great lumbering form glittering like diamonds imbedded in gold by the light of the lanterns, “I order you to speak, operative. Tell me what happened,” she sat herself down, looming over him so her face was close to his.

“Leave me alone!” Scaarbach wailed, “Don’t touch me!”

Gormlot pulled back, waiting patiently with her head on her hands like a cat waiting for the right moment to pounce. A few changelings giggled awkwardly in the background.

“Was that… goblin?” one whispered.

“I think so,” another chuckled.

“Hush!” Gormlot insisted, “You’re on the surface, Scaarbach. You are safe,” she said the words in the goblin tongue, somehow terrible and warm at the same time.

Scaarbach eyed the much larger changeling cautiously, “No,” he grimaced, fighting himself from within, “I know,” he looked around the room, a sea of blurry hollow faces glaring down at him, “No?”

“You’ve regressed. You are in Castlemain House in London,” Gormlot lifted her head, “Tell me what happened.”

It took a moment for Scaarbach to catch his breath but valiantly he won over himself, “I was a whelp,” Scaarbach replied weakly.

“Elaborate,” Gormlot sighed, “This is a formal inquiry.”

“He found out,” Scaarbach said, his voice no more than a timid squeak, “He found out about me. He knew me from before. He tried to kill me but… I convinced him to let me live.”

“When did this happen?” Gormlot asked.

“A year ago,” Scaarbach admitted.

“And he left you alone?” Gormlot wondered.

Scaarbach’s eyes darted towards the direction of Mathers and then back at Gormlot, “He just… didn’t kill me.”

“Elaborate,” Gormlot coaxed.

“Must I?” Scaarbach asked.

“You must because I demand it,” Gormlot replied.

Scaarbach tried to exhale his tensions, to moderate success, “Mathers is a bully, there’s nothing more to say.”

“So he bullied you for a year, which built up to him stabbing you this evening?” Gormlot asked, visibly outraged.

“Yes,” Scaarbach winced, “Mathers sees himself as the cat, and me as the mouse,” he explained.

“Why did you allow this to happen?” Gormlot wondered.

Scaarbach sighed, “Because I see myself as the cat, and him as the dog,” he tore his away to look at his hands, “I thought eventually I could outsmart him, and I didn’t want cause any more trouble for myself.”

“Speak to me now in your _own_ tongue,” Gormlot said, “So everyone here may understand you.”

“Yes,” Scaarbach said, trying to gather what little dignity remained, “Of course, my lady, Grand Commandant.” 

“Start from the beginning,” Gormlot grunted angrily.

“From… the beginning beginning?” Scaarbach asked. 

“If you wish,” Scaarbach exhaled, almost drunk from the humiliation and fear, “Mathers knew me from the beginning, when—” he gulped, “— when I was a whelp. He said we were friends, but we were not. I learnt to be afraid of him, to hide whenever I could.” 

“See!” Mathers yelped defensively, “He’s soft!” 

“Hush yourself!” Catwadder hissed, something glinting in her hand. 

“But then one day he left,” Scaarbach sighed, “And I learnt to forget about him,” he turned to face Bodkin but turned back just as quickly, “But then I came to this house,” he spat, “And I was introduced to a changeling who joked about tormenting a young changeling who matched my description. I knew it was him, but Bodkin had been present when Dr. Tulp did his… examination and knew it was he was talking about me—” he grimaced bitterly, “— the second we were alone he blackmailed me the majority of my wages or he’d tell Mathers who I _really_ was.” 

“What!” Gerbrander exclaimed, “Bodkin why would you do that?” 

“Hush Gerbrander,” Gormlot said, “Bodkin, you know you’ve already been warned about this behaviour in the past.” 

“I didn’t have a choice,” Bodkin said coldly, “You said that we could not afford to keep the little ones unless I came up with the money… and I… I found a way, my lady.” 

Gormlot growled, “Bodkin, you fool, you know very well that is not what I meant,” she turned her attention to Scaarbach, “Please continue.” 

“Everything was fine,” Scaarbach found it impossible to get his torn undershirt to sit in place, “Until someone told Mathers I was his favourite whelp to play with in our youth,” he growled, “A year ago he cornered me in his bedroom, he had been ingesting gravesand and I——” 

“What do you mean ‘ingesting gravesand,’ Scaarbach?” Catwadder asked. 

“This is irrelevant!” Mathers yelled. 

“Silence!” Gormlot roared, “Explain what you mean, Scaarbach.” 

“Well,” Scaarbach shrunk back, “He… mixed it with wine, he said it worked better that way.” 

“That’s madness,” Gerbrander gasped. 

“He cornered me in his bedroom,” Scaarbach repeated, “And he threatened me, he used a gaggletack on me and tried to attack me. That was when he broke my spectacles.” 

“ _You_ took my book!” Gerbrander yelled at Mathers, “You took the gaggletack and my book, you bastard, you _lied_ to my face!” 

“Hush, Gerbrander,” Gormlot said, “Scaarbach, you should have told me of this at the time.” 

Scaarbach hung his head, “I did not want Berlin to learn of any of this, the disgrace woul——” 

“The disgrace would not be yours,” Gormlot insisted. 

Scaarbach looked up, blinking in her direction, “My lady, Grand Commandant, I am _badly_ in debt, I allowed myself to be the toy of this… this—” he gestured at Mathers, “— absolute dog’s pizzle, and then all of—” he gestured at his person, “— all of this… My lady, this is _entirely_ my disgrace.” 

“What do you mean ‘toy,’ Scaarbach?” Gormlot asked through gritted teeth. 

Scaarbach smiled bitterly, “We came to an agreement. He would let me live and I wouldn’t tell you that _he_ was the one who stole Catwadder’s gravesand,” he grimaced, “And he was free to play whatever ‘games’ he wanted.” 

“What ‘games,’ Scaarbach?” Gormlot asked. 

Scaarbach looked around the court towards the sea of blurry masked faces, and a single towering troll, “They were nothing,” he said, “Mind games, intimidation, they were nothing to a Vulture of the Citadel of Bones.” 

Gormlot shifted back into her human form and approached him carefully, “Was tonight one of his so called ‘games’ do you think?” 

“I don’t care, my lady Grand Commandant,” Scaarbach sighed. 

“Well then, how did it start?” Gormlot wondered. 

“I was in bed, sleeping,” Scaarbach began, “I know I was sleeping because I woke up,” he shuddered, “And he attacked me with a blade. I tried to defend myself and escape. That was when you found me.” 

“And you know for sure it was him,” Gormlot asked. 

Scaarbach remembered the smell of him, the sound of his voice, what had turned out to be blood running down his own leg, “His breath is unmistakable, my lady Grand Commandant.” 

“Describe it for the Order,” Gormlot demanded. 

“Gravesand,” Scaarbach replied, “Gravesand and wine.” 

Gormlot walked over to Mathers, her gait smooth like a ghost, “Gravesand and wine,” she agreed. 

“Y - you don’t believe this nonsense, do you?” Mathers exclaimed, slight panic in his voice. 

Gormlot nodded to herself, grumbling deeply as she seemed to come to a decision, “Mathers, do you deny these claims?” 

“Yes!” Mathers insisted. 

“Despite the cuts on your face, the blood on your shirt, the smell of gravesand on your breath?” Gormlot growled angrily, “Mathers, you piece of shit! I could say you’ve lost your stone and have you taken care of immediately!” 

“But it’s _him_ who’s lost his stone!” Mathers yelled, “Why are you taking sides with that pathetic stoneless whelp?” 

“You are mine!” Gormlot grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him in her disgust, “I expect better of you! What purpose does tormenting fellow operatives serve the Order, huh? How well has exposing your position in this house served us?” 

“My lady, this isn’t fair!” Mathers yelped, shrinking back. 

“Do not speak to me of fairness, impure!” Gormlot hissed, “I have just returned from a most serious mission and I was looking forward to a long, uneventful slumber! I did not want to have to deal with the petty squabbles between two operatives who should have known better! Who even knows the damage you’ve caused, we might have to restaff the _entire_ human household for your foolishness!” she thrust him back and paced angrily in a tight circle, “Scaarbach, you’ve been the most wronged in this situation, what punishment do you require?” 

Scaarbach blinked, not sure if he had heard her correctly, “I’m sorry, my lady Grand Commandant?” 

“Your punishment,” Gormlot huffed, “What punishment do you ask of Mathers? What would equal what he has done to you?” 

Scaarbach thought for a moment, convinced it was a trap, “No punishment, my lady Grand Commandant, nothing _you_ wouldn’t ask.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, this is the way of North-Western Branch of the Janus Order,” Gormlot scoffed, “Quickly now, it may be as petty as you like.” 

Scaarbach tried to stand, struggling to his feet. He hobbled up to Mathers, emboldened somewhat by the Janus Order’s support, “My spectacles,” he said meekly, “I just want the money to replace my spectacles.” 

“Well that’s a start,” Gormlot laughed, “But you may even twist the dagger if you like.” 

Scaarbach drew himself up to stare into Mathers’s eyes, “I want it burned,” he spat bitterly, “I want all of his wine burned as he watches.” 

“Hey!” Mathers yelled, “That’s no——” 

“Silence, you fool,” Gormlot hissed, “Very good, and anything else?”

Scaarbach gulped, “I never want to see him again for as long as I live. I want him out of this house.” 

Mathers attempted to rush him but was stopped by Catwadder who held a knife to his throat, “Don’t make it worse for yourself,” Catwadder said carefully, “Your insubordination will not be forgotten.” 

“Bodkin,” Gormlot said, “Fetch a robe, quickly now.” 

Bodkin disappeared into the shadows and returned with an official scarlet robe, embroidered with golden thread, and delicately handed it over to Gormlot. 

“Thank you, child,” Gormlot nodded, “Please cover yourself, you must be freezing,” she said, holding out the robe to Scaarbach. 

Scaarbach looked the robe for a second, not entirely trusting he wasn’t being tricked, and threw it over himself. 

“Very well. Scaarbach, Mathers, come with me,” Gormlot led the two changelings to the chaise longue and took her seat, “It is clear to me that Mathers has been abusing gravesand and this has affected his ability to serve the Janus Order and our superiors. I am not willing to say that he has lost his stone, and at this point in time I believe he may still still be of use to us,” she said, addressing the crowd, “However, I cannot let his conduct slide and punishment needs to be enforced. I decree that the changeling Mathers, surfaced the year 1642, will spend the next three years stationed at ‘The Bog.’ I also decree that our resident physician should assess him thoroughly to ensure an error of judgement has not taken place.” 

The crowd mumbled its general agreement. 

“Regarding our guest Scaarbach, surfaced the year… uh…, when did you surface exactly?” Gormlot asked. 

“1651,” Scaarbach replied. 

“Regarding our guest Scaarbach, surfaced the year 1651, I decree by the laws of our people that he is to be paid personally by Mathers the sum of the spectacles that were broken, and that his collection of wine to be confiscated and kept for the winter solstice bonfire,” Gormlot continued, “I also decree that his habitation to be unsuitable for a changeling of his current disposition and that he be assigned a modest guest room from this point forward.” 

The crowd mumbled to itself in scandalised tones. 

Gormlot raised her hand elegantly, “I will hear no criticism of my judgement bar from Gerbrander in this matter, and word of this unfortunate situation is _not_ to reach beyond these walls, do you understand?” 

The crowd muttered their agreements. 

“I also decree, in the matter of certain misdoings that have come to light tonight—” Gormlot said, “— that Bodkin, surfaced the year 1717, and his books come under investigation _again_.” 

The crowd moaned wearily. 

“To be looked into at a later date,” Gormlot clarified, “Personally, I would like to get some sleep before the sun rises.” 

The crowd exhaled their relief. 

“Everyone may leave and retire to their quarters,” Gormlot said, “Gerbrander, please escort Mathers to your office to see to his wounds. Bonvisi join him in case he proves too… uncooperative. Return Mathers to me when you are done, he needs to be housed, and Scaarbach should spend a few days in the surgery to recover. For now Scaarbach, you will stay here with me, I am not yet done with you.” 

The changelings shuffled away wearily, clearly glad to be allowed to return to their beds. Scaarbach held his robe around himself tightly, swaying slightly where he stood. Once the last of the changelings had left the court, Gormlot turned her attention to Scaarbach. 

“Sit here next to me,” Gormlot said, her voice devoid of the barely held contempt she had used earlier. 

Scaarbach did as he was told, leaving a respectable distance between them both. 

“Sidonia and Angelitha will have to be told, you understand this don’t you?” Gormlot asked. 

Scaarbach nodded mournfully. 

“I think it will best if they hear it from you first,” Gormlot mused, “I will write to them myself, of course, but only after you have penned your report.” 

Scaarbach hung his head, “Yes my lady, Grand Commandant.” 

“What reaction are you anticipating?” Gormlot asked. 

“The Dragon will ask for me to return in disgrace, my lady Grand Commandant,” Scaarbach sighed, “Or demand I say on for a few more years until I can prove myself worthy.” 

“What would you prefer?” Gormlot wondered. 

Scaarbach smiled bitterly to himself, “That doesn’t matter, my lady Grand Commandant.” 

“Doesn’t it?” Gormlot asked softly. 

Scaarbach looked at her, cursing himself for not being able to see her expression, “You… spoke Goblin with me,” he said, trying to change the subject. 

To his surprise Gormlot chuckled, “Of course. Goblins are a necessary part of the Janus Order, it _essential_ for anyone above the rank of a raven to understand them fully.” 

Scaarbach felt the panic begin to rise, “But I - I am not a—” 

“ _Everything_ is a tool to be used to your advantage,” Gormlot insisted, “There’s no hope for a changeling like Mathers, don’t take his cruelty to heart.” 

Scaarbach stared at her mystified, “Sidonia would never say such kind words, my lady Grand Commandant,” he had to stop himself from spitting the words in disgust. 

“You took my words for kindness?” Gormlot asked, “If that is the case, I dare not ask what savagery you are accustomed.” 

Scaarbach let her words hang in silence, too weary and humiliated to add clarity to her curiosity. 

⁂

It was not yet morning and Scaarbach lay in the cot in Dr. Tulp’s office. He was supposed to be sleeping but he felt sick to his stomach and sleep just wouldn’t come. If he closed his eyes he could still see the deformed figures glowering down at him, the light of green fire dancing on their soulless features. It did not matter that what he had seen had been a mere figment of his imagination, he felt no comfort in knowledge he had only one known enemy in the house that night. 

The source of his dread was two-fold, but as he lay in the cot, his eyes set pointedly at the ceiling, he knew only the mortification and shame that what had transpired had been witnessed by every known changeling in Castlemain House. To be attacked in the night by Mathers was terrifying enough, but he was a Vulture of the Citadel of Bones and it would take more than a few stab wounds to take him down. To stumble upon Bonvisi and the Cockatrice as he staggered for shelter, blood pouring from his wounds, was bad enough. 

No. 

What haunted him, tortured him to sleeplessness, was knowing that he had _regressed_ in front of everyone. To regress was not to lose one’s stone, but it was close enough that it was spoken of in only hushed, scandalised tones. The gossip of dark nooks and passed notes. Yet another reason he was the most pathetic changeling in the Janus Order. 

The door to Gerbrander’s quarters opened but it was Bodkin who tip-toed out, creeping past Scaarbach as he pretended to be asleep. Bodkin paused for a moment, staring down at him in a way that made Scaarbach more than a little bit on edge, and then disappeared back into Gerbrander’s quarters. He stepped out quickly after and threw another blanket over Scaarbach wordlessly and left the room by the secret passageway by the side of the cot. 

Utterly furious Scaarbach sat up with half a mind to stubbornly throw the bedding aside, but he stopped as the sharp pain in his side caused him to slow down. As he looked up in the direction of Gerbrander’s quarters he thought he could see two glowing eyes watching him carefully, but after he had blinked, they disappeared. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ngl I actually love goblin lang, that's why it's translated before all others.


	25. Confessions of a Vulture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week has passed since Scaarbach was attacked by the bully Mathers, and he is trying to move forward. However an unexpected guest appears at his door one night and refuses to leave him alone. While it would be easy to appreciate the company, Scaarbach can’t help but resent his guest’s presence.
> 
> CW: English Food, Poisoning Referenced, Discussion of Previous Events, Mild 'Off Screen' Violence

The evening grew late but still Scaarbach was awake. The new quarters Gormlot had assigned him were significantly nicer than the one he had in Berlin, and like night and day compared to the dormitory he had spent the last few years. He had a proper bed to himself, a wardrobe and writing desk, and best of all, a small fireplace and jug of fresh water and a basin to bath daily. He had taken the trouble to heat the water by the fire and sat by it, washing his face and hair with a slither of soap.

It was dark, the room lit only by the light of the fire as it danced upon the walls, and there was the chill of winter not yet passed. But Scaarbach felt, if not safe behind the locked door, secure. To his utmost annoyance there was a knock on the door, and Scaarbach wrapped his robe around himself tightly and patted for the key he knew he had left on the desk by the door.

“What is it?” Scaarbach hissed, water dripping uncomfortably down his neck.

“Is that you, Ottokar?” a familiar voice asked.

Scaarbach hastily unlocked the door and peered around it, “Go away!” he shut the door before Kozlóv could wedge his foot in the way and block it, “Someone might see you,” he added weakly.

“I uh… I brought bread and or pastries,” Kozlóv whispered.

Scaarbach opened the door again, “What bread and or pastries?”

Kozlóv pulled out something wrapped in cloth from his coat pocket and presented it, “It has currants.”

Scaarbach snatched the offering and shut the door before Kozlóv could enter. He leant with his back to the door, and carefully unwrapped what turned out to be a sweet bun that did in fact seem to have currants. It was acceptable. He rewrapped the bun, placed it by his bedside table and begrudgingly returned to let the other changeling in.

“Why are you here?” Scaarbach demanded, locking the door immediately.

“I was summoned,” Kozlóv grunted.

“Who… summoned you?” Scaarbach didn’t mean to squeak the words but panic constricted his throat like a strangle hold.

“Bonvisi,” Kozlóv replied, “I… heard about what happened.”

Scaarbach gulped guiltily, “I don’t want to talk about it,” he took his position back by the fire and paused, remembering his company, “I just want to get clean, and then go to bed.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Kozlóv said, sitting on Scaarbach’s bed.

Scaarbach shot a look in his direction and returned to his bathing, feeling a little self-conscious as he took off the undershirt and robe. He scrubbed his skin with the remains of the soap, carefully ignoring Kozlóv whom he knew was watching him with great interest. Scaarbach pawed for his flannel, just out of reach enough that he had to stretch to reach it. He winced, the muscles in his abdomen not yet healed enough for that kind of action. Kozlóv handed it to him wordlessly. Scaarbach hurriedly dried himself, focusing on his top half so he could cover himself with his robe as soon as possible.

“Where are your spectacles?” Kozlóv asked, his voice low.

Scaarbach paused for a moment before furiously drying his hair a second time, “I… I lost them,” he admittedly weakly from under the flannel.

“When?” Kozlóv demanded.

“A year ago,” Scaarbach exhaled.

Kozlóv grabbed the flannel from him, “Why didn’t you write and tell me?”

“Because you’d be angry,” Scaarbach snapped, reaching for the flannel.

“Of course I am angry!” Kozlóv grumbled, keeping his voice low but making it clear he’d otherwise be yelling, “That was _my_ money! I had to save for that!”

Scaarbach grabbed back the flannel, “I’ll pay you back,” he mumbled, “I don’t know when but… it’s what’s right.”

“Why haven’t you replaced them?” Kozlóv asked.

“I can’t afford to,” Scaarbach muttered, rubbing his arms hard with the flannel until they came up pink.

Kozlóv grabbed his wrist, forcing him to stop, “I asked around,” he said slowly, “I learnt that in a year, you’re given roughly a pound to spend how you like. A _pound_ Ottokar!”

Scaarbach looked down at the hand that gripped tightly around his wrist, “I said I’ll pay you back.”

“That’s not why I’m angry,” Kozlóv insisted, “It’s been a year, why haven’t you replaced your spectacles?” he released his grip, “Be honest with me,” his voice softened.

“Because I’m in _debt_ , Sasha!” Scaarbach hissed, “I’m badly in debt!”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Kozlóv asked.

“It’s none of your business,” Scaarbach angrily dried the rest of his other arm and pulled on his robe, “I am a Vulture of the Citadel of Bones and I can handle myself without _anyone’s_ help.”

Kozlóv said nothing but he did so in a wry, self-righteous manner, poking the spot above where Mathers had stabbed him.

Scaarbach backed away, closing his robes and sitting with his back to the changeling on the chair in front of the fire, “I didn’t ask your opinion.”

Kozlóv sat back down on the bed, watching Scaarbach as he finished drying himself, “I’m staying the night here,” he concluded.

“No you’re not,” Scaarbach scoffed, dabbing up the wet patch on the chair and putting the flannel, jug and basin aside, “I’m going to bed.”

“I’m spending the night,” Kozlóv repeated.

Scaarbach made his way to his bed, pulled on his thick woollen socks, and changed into his nightshirt, “Sasha, I know what you want,” he shooed the changeling out of the way and climbed into his bed, “But what I want is to go to bed.”

Kozlóv grabbed the chair and moved it next to the bed, “I’m staying,” he grunted.

“I won’t change my mind,” Scaarbach crossed his arms over the covers.

Kozlóv nodded, crossing his own arms and getting himself comfortable, “Neither will I.”

“Fine but don’t try anything,” Scaarbach pouted, “I’m not in the mood.”

“Neither am I,” Kozlóv agreed.

Scaarbach wriggled down until his feet met the edge of the bed and pulled the bedding over his nose, “If you want to be useful, keep the fire going.”

Kozlóv nodded again, “Go to sleep, Ottokar,” he chuckled.

“And don’t expect me to talk,” Scaarbach said, “I’m not in the mood for that either.”

⁂

Time passed, although exactly how much Scaarbach wasn’t certain. He lay in bed, comfortable and warm, but annoyingly wide awake. To his side Kozlóv sat patiently on his chair, occasionally getting up to poke at the fire or throw on some fresh wood, but otherwise he was as quiet as one might expect of an assassin. Soft lights danced upon the walls, illuminating details Scaarbach couldn’t see and casting shadows that loomed over him like memories.

“Why are you here?” Scaarbach asked quietly, almost hoping he went unheard.

“I was summoned,” Kozlóv explained.

“Yes I know,” Scaarbach said, “But what made you come?”

“Three weeks ago I received a message from Bonvisi,” Kozlóv replied, “It said, ‘Scaarbach was seriously injured and your presence is required at the Library of Alexandria.’ I came as soon as I could.”

“So… you had no idea what happened until you got here?” Scaarbach asked.

“That is correct,” Kozlóv grunted.

Scaarbach exhaled bitterly, “I wish he hadn’t.”

“Why?” Kozlóv wondered.

“Because I made a mistake,” Scaarbach spat, “Because it was my _own_ stupid fault but I was handling it fine.”

“What stupid mistake?” Kozlóv put his hand on Scaarbach’s shoulder.

Scaarbach pulled back, “I don’t want to talk about it,” he huffed, trying to curl up on the far end of his bed.

“You sound like Velica sometimes,” Kozlóv sighed, “Before she lost her stone.”

A vague fear wormed its way into Scaarbach’s heart, “Did the Order send you to put me out of my misery?” he asked bitterly.

Kozlóv chuckled, “You didn’t eat your bread and or pastry thing.”

Scaarbach frowned, annoyed he had been so annoyed at Kozlóv that he forgotten his gift, “It’s not poisoned is it?”

“Ottokar,” Kozlóv laughed, “Do I look like the type of changeling to use poisons?”

Scaarbach’s frown grew deeper in his scepticism, “That sounds like something a poisoner would say.”

“It’s not poisoned,” Kozlóv promised, “Unless the baker was trying to kill me.”

Scaarbach snatched the bun from his bedside table and unwrapped it, “How did you buy it?”

“I pointed and said ‘want - want, take money, yes?’ until he knew what I meant,” Kozlóv said.

Scaarbach pulled off a bite-sized piece and held it out, “For your kindness.”

“You don’t trust me,” Kozlóv sighed, taking his share. He popped it in his mouth and crossed his arms.

“I don’t trust anyone,” Scaarbach admitted, waiting for signs before he ate his own.

Kozlóv started choking, clawing at his throat desperately as he gasped for breath. He flailed wildly for several seconds before he stopped, chuckling under his breath, “It is actually not too bad—” he paused, “— for English food.”

“Very funny,” Scaarbach muttered, nibbling at his bun.

⁂

More time passed but still Scaarbach lay awake in the bed, bitterly angry at himself for not daring to fall asleep. He wanted desperately to forget what had happened but the mere knowledge that Kozlóv had been told made the memories loom in a distorted cacophony of events. He wondered what details had been spared, what indignity had been embellished, the tone with which the scandal had been relayed. The shadows that danced over him smiled with the indifferent eyes of the Order, towering over him with hushed refrain. And he had been so excruciatingly, nauseatingly… raw.

By his side Kozlóv had slowly slid to the floor, curled up so his head rested on the edge of his pillow and gripped into the mattress with his hands. Every now and again he snorted, not fully asleep but not quite awake to the world. The relative silence welled into a torturous pressure that weighed down on Scaarbach from all directions, suffocating and airless.

“I was _humiliated_ ,” Scaarbach spat, unable to stop himself for any longer.

A hand stretched out and patted him clumsily on the thigh.

“You don’t understand,” Scaarbach insisted, “This wasn’t like Berlin,” he took a deep breath, already knowing what Kozlóv would think of him, “I was in my nightshirt and I was bleeding and I couldn’t tell… I couldn’t,” he gulped, “I - I… _regressed_ … in front of everyone, like a fucking quivering egg,” he felt his hands trying to shake just from the memory of it, “And now no one will look me in the eye.”

Kozlóv sat up, silent but listening intently.

“I couldn’t tell you at the time but Mathers knew me from… before,” Scaarbach decided if he was going explain himself again, it may as well be from the beginning,

“He was… is… so much bigger than me, so much more _trollish_. When I got here I never imagined I’d see him again but he mentioned me… young me… and I knew it was him,” he exhaled, trying to keep his voice level, “But Bodkin also knew who he meant, and he blackmailed me so I could keep my identity secret. That’s _why_ I am in so much debt.”

“When did this happen?” Kozlóv growled.

“It was my second day in London,” Scaarbach admitted.

“But—” Kozlóv edged closer over the bed, “— you’ve been here for _years_.”

“I know, Sasha,” Scaarbach hissed, “And I couldn’t tell you and I couldn’t make it stop, not even when Mathers found out who I really am.”

“When did he find out?” Kozlóv asked, his voice low.

“I had just gotten my spectacles, and there was the business with Miss Baker,” Scaarbach curled in on himself, edging away from Kozlóv.

“How?” Kozlóv asked.

“I don’t know,” Scaarbach sighed, “He said something about a little birdie telling him. I assumed it was Bodkin but it wasn’t him after all. I don’t know who it was. But after he stole Gerbrander’s book and gaggletack it doesn’t seem important. It was my own fault for letting him get me behind locked doors.”

“He asked me,” Kozlóv said, sounding hollow and distant, “He gave me wine and when my breeches were down, asked me what I _really_ look like,” he sighed, “I didn’t think anything of it so I told him. But then he asked what _you_ really look like and I thought that might cross a line, so I was vague… but I told him how you are blue marble and really short and—”

“Sasha,” Scaarbach breathed, “It was you, this _whole_ time it was you.”

“I let my guard down, I am sorry,” Kozlóv said mournfully.

“Don’t,” Scaarbach snapped, “Don’t try to apologise, or comfort, or _coddle_ me,” he couldn’t keep the disgust from his voice, “I am a Vulture of the Citadel of Bones and I am going to… move on… from all of this… somehow.”

“Is Mathers still in this house?” Kozlóv asked darkly.

“I don’t know,” Scaarbach grumbled.

“If I see him again I’m going to kill him,” Kozlóv muttered.

Scaarbach exhaled, wishing so deeply that he could allow that, “Don’t. The Order has decided his stone is fine and cannot be spared. If the Order wants him alive, so - so do I.”

“Oh? Well,” Kozlóv corrected himself, “If I see him again I’m going to kill him _slightly_.”

Scaarbach snorted and turned over, his forehead unexpectedly pressing into Kozlóv’s, “I will allow it.”

⁂

Dawn approached, heralded by birdsong. Scaarbach watched Kozlóv silently as he slept, caught in the place between exhaustion and loneliness. The following day was not likely to be full of currents and confessions and he wanted to hold onto the moment for just a little longer. But it could only be a moment, short and never spoken of again.

“Sasha,” Scaarbach hissed, nudging his shoulder, “Sasha wake up.”

Kozlóv sat up with a snort, “What is it?” he moaned sleepily.

“You need to leave,” Scaarbach whispered, “Before everyone wakes for breakfast.”

“Oh,” Kozlóv groaned, rubbing his eyes, “It is morning,” he stood up, smoothed out the wrinkles in his clothes and turned to leave.

Scaarbach’s hand shot out and gripped the tail of his coat desperately, wordlessly.

Kozlóv tried to pull away, noticed the tug, and turned to face him, “Yes?”

“Why did you really spend the night?” Scaarbach whispered hoarsely.

Kozlóv squatted down to face Scaarbach as he still lay in bed, “For three weeks I feared the worst,” he exhaled.

Scaarbach frowned, “Well, I’m _fine_. It took only three seconds to see that.”

“Is that what you call it,” Kozlóv chuckled.

“How long will you be in London?” Scaarbach wondered.

“A few days,” Kozlóv shrugged.

“Visit me again tonight,” Scaarbach said, “Once everyone has gone to bed.”

Kozlóv smiled and nodded wordlessly. He made to stand but Scaarbach caught him by the coat collar.

Scaarbach kissed him, “Thank you… for uh… not poisoning me.”

“It was my pleasure,” Kozlóv grinned, “Will I see you at breakfast?”

Scaarbach nodded.

⁂

The changelings sat around the dining table in front of the first meal of the day. At the far end of the table sat the higher ranking changelings who typically didn’t socialise with Scaarbach at all. On the other side of the table, were the rest of the changelings. Bodkin was nowhere to seen, probably off seeing to his children as always. By Scaarbach’s side sat Dr. Tulp, and the often abroad Annapeda. To his annoyance he faced Mathers, who at least had the grace to seem sheepish in the presence of the others.

Scaarbach took a bread roll and frowned, “Would someone pass the butter?”

There was an awkward creak as Mathers stood and pushed the butter dish forward.

“Thank you,” Scaarbach replied through gritted teeth, spreading the butter on his roll, “Is it honey or jam this morning?”

“Plum jam I’m afraid,” Dr. Tulp replied, “Would you like some?”

Scaarbach took the proffered jam and spread it on his roll, trying to ignore Mathers’s presence. He took a bite of the roll and tried to stop his eyes from wandering over to Kozlóv’s direction.

“It’s Kozlóv, isn’t it?” Annapeda asked conversationally.

“That’s right,” Kozlóv replied.

“Are you here because of the incident in Alconbury?” Annapeda took a sip of her tea, “Everybody’s talking about it.”

“I’m afraid that’s classified,” Kozlóv chuckled.

“If you’re involved I imagine it would have to be,” Annapeda laughed, “Have you heard about what happened with your very own Scaarbach?”

“He’s not mine,” Kozlóv grunted, “And I don’t listen to gossip.”

“Really?” Annapeda replied incredulously, “Well, this isn’t gossip. Aren’t you concerned about what the Dragon is going to say?”

“The Dragon’s judgement is final,” Kozlóv said gruffly, “Every changeling under her command accepts this.”

Mathers spat in disgust but said nothing.

“Do you have something to say, Mathers?” Scaarbach asked, emboldened by Kozlóv’s presence.

Mathers stood up and exhaled sharply, “Please excuse me, I think I lost my appetite.”

Kozlóv also stood up, “Likewise,” he grunted.

Mathers bowed curtly to the head of the table and walked briskly out of the room, muttering something under his breath.

“You’re not leaving us too are you, my friend?” Dr. Tulp asked, waving a butter knife at Kozlóv in a vague circular motion.

“I… have a message for him from the Strix,” Kozlóv bowed.

“Oh I see,” Dr. Tulp replied, “Very well, you must go then.”

“Such a pity,” Annapeda frowned, “Perhaps we can catch up in the evening, if you have the time?”

“I look forward to it,” Kozlóv chuckled humourlessly.

Scaarbach tried not to watch Kozlóv leave the room, instead buttering his second bread roll. There was the sound of gruff muttering, followed by a very distinct _thwump!_ and someone running on the polished tiles.

“Oh dear,” Annapeda said to herself, “I hope the humans didn’t see that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Sasha really did that.


	26. The Equinox Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year of 1809 is coming to an end, and as is traditional the changelings honour their mission and purpose, coming together for a masked ball and feast into the wee hours of the morning. The celebration itself is held only once every twelve years, but it is timed well, as a decade in, Scaarbach, now skilled with shears and thread, and armed with a healthy degree of humility, is finally ready to return home. It is a good day.
> 
> CW: Amateur Theatre, Changeling Mythology, Theatrical Violence, References to Dancing

He was late. Intellectually Scaarbach realised this, but he was determined to finish the lining of his formal waistcoat for the evening’s upcoming event. His entire outfit was ready, apart from the waistcoat, and he sat in his quarters in breeches and shirt, just waiting to get the final stitch down. Castlemain House had been brimming over with activity for weeks, changelings poured in from every near north-western country, and some even from Scaarbach’s own branch of the Janus Order. He hide the ends, expertly so, and nearly leapt into the air in relief. He thrust his sewing kit aside and hurriedly finished dressing himself, hoping the others wouldn’t frown down on his tardiness too severely. He had to trust everything was in order as his little shaving mirror was next to useless for such a purpose. Patting himself down, he took a deep breath and opened his door.

No sooner had he locked the door to his room, Bodkin grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him to the halls which had been dressed festively for the occasion. Bodkin himself was dressed smartly, wearing Lord Sinclair’s cast-offs, but one had to look carefully to see the tell tale signs of adjustments on the shoulder and waist.

“What were you doing?” Bodkin asked as they nearly ran up the hallway to get to their spots in time.

“Just some last minute adjustments, Mr. Bodkin,” Scaarbach explained.

“I told you not to do that,” Bodkin scoffed, “It’s too risky,” they stopped as they got to the great doors, “What if you hadn’t made it in time?”

Scaarbach bowed curtly at the men guarding the door, “I would have worn it anyway.”

Bodkin shook his head as they were hurriedly let in, “You’re supposed to be a professional.”

Scaarbach chuckled as they took their positions by the side of the stage that had been opened up for the event, “I couldn’t resist, my friend.”

Bodkin spun around, searching frantically, “Where’s my bloody vio—”

Wordlessly, Scaarbach handed over his violin, “Where you left it this morning.”

“Thank you, good chap,” Bodkin nodded, immediately checking the instrument was in tune before they began.

“I missed the last rehearsal, didn’t I?” Scaarbach asked, taking his own violin and examining it carefully.

“Yes,” Bodkin sighed, “You missed the Cockatrice and Harpy in their dresses,” he shook his head, “Gormlot’s dress might be my finest yet.”

“I’ll try to keep a look out later,” Scaarbach promised, running through some warm ups to loosen his fingers stiff from sewing.

Gerbrander moved a chair to the side, frowned and then put it back again. It was obviously he wanted everything to be perfect, but Scaarbach wasn’t sure anybody else actually cared about the placement of the chairs in question.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Bodkin reassured him, coming to a natural pause in his melody.

“Yes, but it’s important everyone has enough leg room,” Gerbrander muttered, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“In the front row?” Bodkin asked incredulously, “The _front_ row?”

⁂

The doors swung open and the changeling guests spilled in, taking their place in chairs provided, each dressed to their finest. From his position flanking the stage and with the mask that covered his features above the nose, it was difficult to see the faces of those towards to the back, but for a split second he caught sight of Kozlóv and his breath hitched, suddenly nervous. The guests settled and Scaarbach, with Bodkin at his side, began to play. Softly at first, gently greasing the machine of their suspension of disbelief. A reverent silence fell upon the crowd, and their eyes looked up at the stage expectantly, awaiting what was to come.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Gerbrander began, “Bastards and adulterers, loyal and impure, bid your welcomes to our illustrious Harpy and Cockatrice!”

The crowd clapped politely, and Scaarbach and Bodkin raised their melody to a nearly jaunty number, turning slightly in the hopes they could catch a glimpse of Gormlot or Catwadder in their element. Scaarbach caught sight of the hem of Gormlot’s train, embroidered lavishly with peacock feathers on the edges.

“Thank you, it warms my heart to see so many familiar faces,” Gormlot said brightly, smiling with her voice, “As we all know, it’s traditional for our branch to gather once every twelve years on the night of the winter equinox to celebrate our endurance and honour our Lady Creator. It is a time to connect, to remember those we lost and welcome those who joined us in their stead. There will be feasting, there will be dancing, there will be drinking, but first let us begin with a little story.”

He couldn’t see them, but Scaarbach knew from rehearsals that Gormlot and Catwadder had stepped back and done a gracious bow towards the crowd. The music kicked into a more dramatic, ominous tune.

“Many years ago,” Gerbrander said, “A war was waged between the Purest of the Pure, and those that bowed to the demands of human kind. Many were killed, and many more were captured. Perhaps some of those in this very room today were once whelps snatched in the chaos of those violent times.”

There was a flash and a gasp from the audience as Catwadder shifted, their eyes wide as they gaped at her enviable abilities as a polymorph.

“Our hero was not loyal to our Glorious King, as one might expect,” Gerbrander continued, “In fact, the two were sworn enemies.”

Catwadder roared in her acquired form, and locked blades with Gormlot, who had taken the form Gunmar, growling in turn.

“By Deya’s Grace and the grit of my stone, I swear I will defeat you, foe, and end your reign upon these lands!” Catwadder insisted, her voice entirely unrecognisable in her role.

The crowd booed and cheered.

“In Trollish kingdoms far and wide, they sung ballads of our hero, a leader just and true for his people,” Gerbrander gestured at the stage, “But Gunmar the Undefeated would not be cowed, and swore He would kill our hero once and for all.”

Catwadder and Gormlot engaged in mock battle on the stage, cramped into unrealistic stylisism in an attempt to work with the small space it gave. Scaarbach nearly missed his cue, craning his neck to see the moment on stage.

“Swear loyalty to _me_ , your righteous king, or die by my hands!” Gormlot roared, as she held her glamoured decimar blade against Catwadder’s throat as she lay prone on the floor.

“Never!” Catwadder hissed.

“Now, perhaps this is where our tale would have ended, if it were not for our Lady Creator’s intervention,” Gerbrander addressed the audience with the paternal knowing of a father reading his child an Aesop’s fable.

It was in this moment that Rowlanda dashed onto the stage, and put herself between the mock Decimar blade and Catwadder, “He must live!” she cried out dramatically, “ _I_ have use of him yet!”

“And at this, our righteous king paused, for He knew the changeling spoke with our Lady Creator’s voice, and He was not so foolish as to question Her judgement,” Gerbrander said, “So with that our hero fled and went into hiding with his fellow survivors, abandoning their homeland and leaving it to become spoils of war.”

Gormlot and Rowlanda left the stage, leaving Catwadder in the centre, all eyes on her. The music turned sombre and hushed, a sharp contrast to the aggressive discordant fiddling that come before it.

“And as one by one, our hero’s people fell to the Decimar’s will, he found himself desperate,” Gerbrander said, “And so he rowed out into the great sea of black in search of a fabled witch, the only person, troll or no, he had faith would change the fate for his people. He found Her in a hidden shrine of power, led by the light of the full moon, and beseeched Her, hoping he would be enough.”

Catwadder said a quick chant in a language magical and divine, “Take this soul, may it give You power and be taken as a sign of my honourable intent,” Catwadder continued.

There was the sound of wings flapping, a soft dove’s coo, followed by a pained squawk, hollow bones crunching, and then, Scaarbach and Bodkin taking their cue, silence.

“Come forth, She known by uncountable names. Argante, Lady Pale, Mother Creator and Eldritch Queen,” Catwadder called into the darkness beyond the stage.

“So you have come, as I knew you would,” Gormlot replied, her voice uncanny and hollow.

“Gunmar’s war to take the surface lands has scattered my people,” Catwadder’s voice broke, although of course, it was not her own, “With each passing day our numbers dwindle, I ask only for the power to protect what remains of my people, nothing more, nothing less.”

“You know not what you ask,” Gormlot continued, “What are willing to offer as a price for such power?”

“I offer my own living stone, the very fabric of my being,” Catwadder replied.

The crowd gasped as Gormlot stepped into view, glittering and golden, her face obscured with a doll-like mask, even she not daring to take on their Lady Creator’s form in full.

“Then so be it,” Gormlot purred, reaching out, thrusting her bejewelled hand beyond the view of the audience.

A fiery light danced on the faces in the crowd, either magic or deception, Scaarbach himself was not entirely sure. He began to play again, increasingly fervent and unhinged, representing the power as it flooded their hero.

Catwadder fell her knees, “I feel your power and know it to be true. Gunmar will fall before I meet my end, I am sure of it!”

“What our hero did not yet realise,” Gerbrander said, “Was that he had signed away something he had not known could be given away, although each and everyone in this room has paid the very same price in their own way.”

“Why?” Catwadder plead, “Why does my stone feel cold, like the ice of the northern most winds?”

“I have your heart,” Gormlot replied smoothly, “It will serve Me greater than your stone ever could. Why take the vessel when the oil is what burns brightest?”

“Liar!” Catwadder snapped, “You tricked me, what will become of my people now?”

“The last of your people has already fallen,” Gormlot said, “They fell when you turned your back on them, seeking power for yourself.”

“It can’t be!” Catwadder cried, “How can I even mourn them when you have stolen my heart away in a cage of ice?”

“Who you once were is of no consequence to the face of what will be,” Gormlot said as elegantly as a queen, “Bow before your queen eternal, and rise, reborn in your selfishness, the latest weapon at My disposal. For from now on, you shall be known as Angor Rot and all shall tremble as they come to know Our might!”

“My… my—” Catwadder sobbed, her breathing caught in her stolen chest, “— my Queen,” she said, her voice suddenly empty and hollow, spoken like a true chosen one of their Lady Creator.

“Do not weep, my favoured soldier,” Gormlot cooed warmly, “As you go out into the world, and eradicate Merlin’s champions, one by one, you will not be alone. I will be with you forever and always, and I ask only for your loyalty and competence in return.”

“Forever and always,” Catwadder repeated emptily.

“Forever and always,” Gormlot agreed, “My love for you will be forever and always.”

“And on that night, the warlock assassin Angor Rot was born, loyal to not the armies of Gunmar, but bowing to the glorious rule of our Lady Creator,” Gerbrander said, his hand resting over his heart, “It is said that he went forth into the Black Sea and laid siege upon those trolls still loyal to deceptive Merlin, and soon even they came to echo his name in fear and admiration. It is also said that he still walks this realm, hidden from the view of humans and our kin, picking off any whose name our Lady Creator whispers in his ears, the stoneless who have escape the grasp of even our most expert of assassins.”

Scaarbach played the final melody, with Bodkin by his side, as Gormlot and Catwadder came to the front of the stage in their regular human forms, bowing for the audience once more as they erupted in applause.

⁂

The changelings spun in the centre of the grand hall, their masks drawing attention to their sparkling white grins as they danced with careless abandon. Trailing skirts were held in flawlessly gloved hands as they hopped and skipped together, dance partners switching and swapping with dizzying regularity. Scaarbach watched on as he played his violin, joined by Bodkin, and Catwadder on the piano forte. He was perfectly happy to watch the crowd in their games, perhaps a little jealous, although he’d deny it, his attention mostly caught on one particular individual above all others.

In the distance Kozlóv spun his dance partner, Gerbrander of all people, head and shoulders above the others. He was dressed more finely than Scaarbach had ever seen him, and it made for an almost anachronistic sight. It was difficult to hide that his gaze kept being drawn to the same person in the crowd, but Scaarbach endeavoured just in case further rumours followed him out of London. The piece finished and Catwadder clapped her hands daintily. The dancers began their migration back to the corners of the hall to mingle and gossip behind their masks.

“You’ve earned yourselves a respite, I should say,” Catwadder said, grinning in such a way her eyes wrinkled with mischief.

Scaarbach and Bodkin bowed curtly.

“Thank you, my lady,” Scaarbach said, letting his instrument rest by his side.

“I am grateful, my lady,” Bodkin admitted, “I’m not as strong a musician as a tailor, but I’ve been trying my best to keep up.”

Scaarbach smirked at him, restraining a gloating remark for the sake of good manners, “I hadn’t noticed, Mr. Bodkin.”

Scaabach rested his violin next to Bodkin’s, the bow by its side. He rubbed his hands together, and wriggled them angrily, trying to work the stiffness from his joints, and then gloved them before entering into the crowd. There Kozlóv stood, flirting with a plump changeling Scaarbach had never met, her dark hair cascading in tightly coiled ringlets framing her round face and shockingly green eyes. In the distance Catwadder began to play again, not a melody to dance to, just a merry tune to soften the harsh sounds of conversation.

Loosing his nerve, Scaarbach shrunk back to a white marble bust of lady Gormlaith, dressed fancifully in the manner of Queen Boadicea of the Iceni, the fierceness of her glare captured perfectly in the stone. He considered the implications for a moment, wondering if there had been more meaning in the choice than the humans could have guessed. His eyes traced the spidery dark streaks that trailed across her cheeks, down her jaw, and through her throat like a scar or splash of woad.

The music changed to something bright and jaunty and the dancers began to make their way back to the dance floor once again. Scaarbach turned to watch them but was met with a broad chest, and extended hand. He blinked behind his mask, not really knowing what to say as Kozlóv grinned down at him, warmth radiating every inch of person like a bonfire.

“Care to dance?” Kozlóv asked, repeating what Scaarbach already understood.

“Kozlóv,” Scaarbach said, grateful for the mask that hid his expression.

“Ah, who is Kozlóv?” Kozlóv wondered whimsically, “Tonight I am just a nameless changeling in service of our Lady Creator.”

“So am I,” Scaarbach said, playing along, “But the dance has already started.”

Kozlóv shrugged and took his hand, dragging Scaarbach into the centre of the hall with the other dancers before he could protest, a fool-hardy grin plastered over what little of his face was visible. Scaarbach was half inclined to pull away but the frivolity was intoxicating and before he knew what he was doing, he had been spun into the care of the next lead, and the next.

Amongst themselves, changelings had their own dances, for them and them alone. They were composed in the Darklands and were, for the most part, hidden from human eyes. At their root was trollish and goblin origins, but human concepts leaked through from accounts written in reports, although executed in a way one might expect from children who had read of the galliard and pavane, but never seen them in person. On the surface they were seldom repeated, but when they were, they were adjusted to account for space and human sensibilities.

Quickly weaving between his fellow dancers, their form more aggressive and direct than their human counterparts, Scaarbach remembered the brighter moments of his youth, memories he had thought he’d long since forgotten. He turned his head and caught sight of Mathers, permitted to Castlemain House for the event and the event only, and for a moment wavered. The dancers changed position and Scaarbach found himself back in Kozlóv’s full attention, their hands held tantalising in front of each other, but not quite touching, not yet. He spun on his heel, and met Mather’s eye, this time intentionally, and tried to communicate his displeasure before the dance compelled him turn once more.

With an exaggerated bow, no changeling would curtsy outside of human gaze, the dance ended. And Scaarbach gestured that he was done for a time and made his way back to bust of Queen Boadicea of the Iceni. Kozlóv followed him.

“I knew you wanted to dance,” Kozlóv grinned smugly, thoroughly pleased with himself.

Scaarbach gestured dismissively, “I was just being polite.”

Kozlóv laughed out loud, thumping Scaarbach on the shoulder, “It’s good to know you’re still a very funny little man.”

Scaarbach smiled to himself, pretending to be very distracted by the marble bust, knowing exactly what Kozlóv was really saying, but not daring to confirm it with so many changelings watching. For that moment, his knowing smirk was more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changeling Theatre™


	27. Finding the Rabbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Equinox Ball comes to a climax by the light of the roaring bonfire, but Kozlóv and Scaarbach are quick to tear themselves away. Kozlóv looks to the future, but for Scaarbach nothing could be more terrifying.
> 
> CW: Alcohol Consumption, Cult Stuff Again, Fire... Stuff, Adult Interactions of a Sexual Nature

The table was spread with the most delectable array of delicacies and fineries Scaarbach had ever seen. He sat with his back straight, observing the other changelings that stretched the whole length of the dining hall. It was an impressive sight, and Scaarbach was grateful for his spectacles to have seen. By his side sat Kozlóv and the two were doing their best to seem as nonchalant as possible under the gaze of the majority of the British members of the Order. Scaarbach took a delicate sip of the beef consommé, trying to ignore that Kozlóv’s shoe was pressed affectionately into his under the table.

“Are you looking forward to returning to Berlin, Scaarbach?” Kozlóv asked conversationally.

Scaarbach paused to think about it, taking a reflective sip of his wine. In some ways he was grateful for the chance to finally return to the position he had once considered his home, but after a decade in London, he was worried about the adjustment. “I go where the Order asks me, sir,” Scaarbach replied carefully, “It doesn’t matter how I feel.”

“Oh,” Kozlóv replied, “Of course, but—” he dropped his gaze, looking at the spoon he held out inelegantly, “— aren’t there faces you miss, places you’d love to see again?”

Scaarbach deliberately caught the eye of Annapeda seated across from him and smiled politely, “There _is_ one little bakery I’m hoping is still in business,” he admitted under his breath.

Kozlóv snorted, “I knew there was something.”

“How long until you leave us, Scaarbach?” Annapeda asked as Gerbrander handed her the butter.

“He’ll be leaving with me and two other changelings,” Kozlóv explained, thumping Scaarbach on the shoulder.

Scaarbach smiled thinly, “Thank you sir, but I could have said that myself.”

“Are you sure it’s wise to travel together with your history?” Gerbrander asked, perhaps innocently, perhaps not.

“That was a decade ago Gerbrander, don’t be silly,” Scaarbach scoffed, still trying to ignore the shoe pressed intimately into his.

“There will be two others on the voyage, not counting the human,” Kozlóv grinned, “If he tries to throw me overboard I’ll have people to protect me.”

Their side of the table tittered at the joke, Scaarbach made a face.

“Maybe he’ll sew the sleeves of all your coats together when you sleep?” Bodkin added, a knowing smile stretched over his face like the napkin laid out on his lap.

Kozlóv snorted, nearly choking on his consommé, “I think I’ll be safe.”

⁂

As the last of the dessert had been taken away, the light conversation stopped, and the changelings emptied out into the halls. One by one they threw their heavy cloaks over themselves, took a lantern, and began their trek across the Castlemain grounds. There was a fierce chill in the air, and the full moon peaked over through a light spray of inconsequential clouds. No one spoke, and each changeling seemed enthralled, entirely unaware of the others around them. Scaarbach had never been to the temple, but he’d heard hushed whispers regarding it’s magical properties. With each careful step under the night’s sky, he grew in anticipation, eager to see it for himself.

Eventually their destination revealed itself, a large bonfire encircled by aged stones towering into the sky like trolls who had gazed upon sun. Catwadder stood by it, recognisable with the harpy’s faced mask she wore, drumming rhythmically as the flames licked dangerously close to her cape. One by one, the changelings sat their lanterns down on the ancient and weathered mosaic floor, and drew close to the fire. The heat was inviting, but it was the light that had drawn Scaarbach closer. Their numbers were too great for him to get fully near, but the brilliant gold called out to something deep within him. There was no telling if this something was the traces of humanity or trolldom, or perhaps something else, something eldritch and engrained into his stone.

A voice sung, hollow and distant. Scaarbach could not source it, or perhaps he didn’t dare, his eyes transfixed on the fire and nothing else. He thought he caught words, some of the Elder Tongue, others in Old Changeling, but for reasons he couldn’t fathom, he couldn’t catch them in his mind. As he stared into the golden fire, he thought he could see a figure, human, larger than life, a goddess if he had ever seen one. The voice grew loudly, more fervent, and Scaarbach realised it was Gormlot.

The changelings backed away, creating a large circle of empty space between themselves and the bonfire, and Gormlot stepped forward, holding large flagon. She cocked her golden mask back and drunk deeply from the flagon, the air strangely empty without her sung words that were surely spun of magic. As the Grand Commandant reached her fill, she flung the remains of the flagon into the bonfire and was engulfed entirely by flames as it nearly doubled in size. From the centre of the inferno, the song returned, a trollish voice, angrier and more forceful than before. The changelings around Scaarbach began to echo the song, each using their trollish voices. He joined in, not fully understanding the words, nor a particularly confident singer, but in a chorus neither truly mattered.

Gormlot pulled herself up from the flames, standing tall in her trollish form, her golden form nearly lost in the bonfire. She threw her head up towards the night’s sky, and let out a extended, plaintive howl that put shivers down Scaarbach’s spine. It was, for lack of a better word, monstrous. To his surprise, the changelings around him echoed her sentiment, letting out guttural roars at the moon like wild beasts. Scaarbach looked around, feeling self-conscious, and allowed himself to join in. His body vibrated with the resonance, he could feel he feel his inhuman strength and resilience through every fibre of his being, and the catharsis of his roar was liberating in a way he had never known. He poured out his frustrations of the decade and more, embracing the freedom as though it could heal him from within.

From the other side of the ruins, several changelings pulled out large casks and open them, pouring their contents out into smaller flagons. The crowd naturally migrated towards this development and were given a flagon each when their turn came. Scaarbach swigged his greedily, giddy with exhilaration. The greater ceremony over, various songs spread out through the gathering, and some danced the violent flighty dances of their childhoods in the light of the bonfire.

A hand grabbed Scaarbach by the elbow and dragged him backwards towards the towering stones. Scaarbach yelled, cursing his assailant, fearing it was Mathers, but relaxed when he saw the towering figure that gripped his arm.

Kozlóv grinned at him and took a long deep gulp from his flagon, “This elderberry could strip paint,” he grunted, taking another gulp.

Scaarbach nodded and took another swig, somewhat anxious to finish it as quickly as possible but not wanting to lose the moment forever, “I suppose.”

“Do you think I could seduce Gormlot?” Kozlóv wondered absently, staring into the distance.

Scaarbach choked, elderberry wine shooting from his nose, “What?”

“A polymorph and a fire-dancer would be an _experience_ ,” Kozlóv explained, “I wonder if she’d let me.”

“You’re an idiot,” Scaarbach scoffed, wiping his face with a handkerchief.

“A horny idiot,” Kozlóv corrected, taking another gulp of his flagon as he considered the drunken frivolity with thoughtful intent.

A pause passed between them, awkward and self-conscious, and Scaarbach looked up at the night’s sky, trying to muster up the courage or wit to know how to proceed. He took another swig, carefully watching to see if anyone noticed them at all. He thought he saw Gerbrander back away into the shadows, taking a lantern with him as he made his trek towards the house. He took another swig and watched a figure he was certain was Bodkin trail behind the doctor. Scaarbach smirked, knowing exactly what they were doing. He took another deep gulp of his flagon and another, not stopping until he finished it.

“Kozlóv,” Scaarbach said, tugging at Kozlóv’s sleeve.

Kozlóv looked down at him, “Yes?”

Scaarbach gestured into the night, nodding his head expectantly, hoping Kozlóv would get the hint.

Kozlóv laughed heartily and took a deep gulp of his flagon, letting it fall on the ground, “At least you’re not an idiot,” he chuckled.

⁂

The two backed away from the revelry, withdrawing as the others still danced and sang and drank under the roaring light of the bonfire. The air was crisp against Scaarbach’s skin and his spectacles fogged from his breath in the night. Bawdy changeling songs echoed until they broke the barrier of the silence charm one of the higher changelings had undoubtably placed and felt, if not alone, isolated from the rest of the world. He walked behind Kozlóv, just far enough he could still see his silhouette but not close enough that anyone would have irrefutable proof of anything untoward. He watched Kozlóv duck into the house and disappear into the darkness.

The halls were quiet, and his footsteps echoed as he made his way to the guest rooms. His own room was to the right and he traced a hand along the wall, feeling his way in the darkness. From behind there was the sound of a door creaking open and a harsh psst. Scaarbach tried to look unsuspecting as he turned around and side-stepped in its direction. A hand grabbed his own and pulled him into the guest room, closing the door behind him.

Kozlóv was already half undressed, and a nice blazing fire roared in the fireplace, casting long shadows against the walls. Scaarbach stepped further into the room and examined it carefully. It was nicer than his own room, bigger than his own by half, but it was not so big that the fire’s efforts were for nothing.

“Take off your mask,” Kozlóv said, taking a seat on the edge of his bed.

Scaarbach obliged, feeling strangely naked after having worn it all evening, “Wouldn’t it be more fun if I kept it on?” he smirked, not quite at the point of intoxication but playfully close.

Kozlóv snorted, “Come here, it might be a while before we get this chance again.”

Scaarbach edged closer, “That is true,” he sat next to Kozlóv on the bed and fingered the lapel of his coat with his free hand, not especially wanting to think about what was awaiting them both in the future.

“You look very nice,” Kozlóv said, “Did you make that yourself?”

“Well yes,” Scaarbach put his mask down, “I make all my own clothes—” he paused, “— almost all of them.”

“Let me see,” Kozlóv asked, turning slightly to face him.

Scaarbach made a face and removed his coat, handing it over, “Do you think I’m lying?”

“Lying?” Kozlóv laughed, “I just wanted to find the rabbit.”

Scaarbach exhaled, “It’s on th——”

“No - no, don’t tell me,” Kozlóv insisted, “I want to find it for myself.”

Scaarbach watched impatiently as Kozlóv searched the coat, looking for the rabbit he somehow knew he had sewn into the lining.

“Ah!” Kozlóv exclaimed, turning out the left sleeve, “I found it.”

“Congratulations,” Scaarbach groaned, shaking his head, “Sidonia will be so proud.”

Kozlóv laughed, his eyes wrinkling happily like a cat by the fire, “Ah, but this is just our little secret, yes?”

Scaarbach took back his coat and turned it the right way around, smoothing it out and folding it neatly, “Of course Sasha,” he said patiently.

Kozlóv turned to look at the fire roaring besides them, “Today was fun,” his voice was faint and distant, almost as though he were lost in thought, “But soon everything will change again.”

“So?” Scaarbach scoffed, “We’re changelings, we adapt, it’s what we do.”

“In Berlin, it will be harder to get to you, despite being closer,” Kozlóv sighed.

Scaarbach frowned, the thought hadn’t escaped him but he didn’t want to ruin his evening by dwelling on it further, “Sasha,” he said, untying his cravat, “Stop ruining the moment,” he scoffed.

Kozlóv turned his attention back to him and smiled, “I like your waistcoat,” he undid the buttons carefully, his breath bated in concentration.

“Thank you,” Scaarbach said, “I only finished it this afternoon.”

“You’re so clever,” Kozlóv paused as the waistcoat fell open, their eyes meeting.

“Am I?” Scaarbach wondered, removing his waistcoat, and placing it folded with his coat.

Kozlóv kissed him, pulling off Scaarbach’s undershirt clumsily and throwing it aside in his haste. Onto the fire.

Scaarbach stood up and watched his shirt burn, he turned accusingly to Kozlóv who hadn’t noticed what he had done, “Sasha,” he said quietly, not knowing what else to say.

“Yes, Ottokar?” Kozlóv asked, playful in his ignorance.

Something snapped in Scaarbach and he hurriedly unbuttoned his breeches, kicking them to the ground, and grabbed for his mask, “Nothing,” he said, “Nothing at all.”

⁂

It was warm in the bed, and Scaarbach lay half asleep, snug in the knowledge he didn’t have to scurry off to work with Bodkin that morning, or indeed, ever again. To his side Kozlóv was snoring happily, and the sound of rain created a soothing hum in the air. Scaarbach burrowed deeper, curling up tightly under the covers, his contented smile hidden from the world.

An hour passed, or perhaps three, and Kozlóv drew closer, his hands searching clumsily for Scaarbach’s as he lay half asleep, fumbling over naked skin. Ordinarily, Scaarbach wouldn’t allow it, turning his nose up at tenderness as one would rotten meat, but in his drowsy torpor, warm in the afterglow of the night before, and desperate for any distraction to keep his mind of the future… it was not the worst thing in the world to hold the hand of another.

“Are you asleep?” Kozlóv asked, his voice low.

Scaarbach mumbled something indistinctly, waving his free hand under the bedding as though Kozlóv could have possibly seen it.

“Good morning,” Kozlóv replied happily, “Thank you for spending the night.”

“Morning,” Scaarbach muttered, sitting up and rubbing his eyes blearily, wondering what he’d done with his clothes.

Kozlóv sat up next to him, and gave him a quick kiss on the check, “You need a comb,” he chuckled.

Scaarbach turned to face him, about to say something smart, before he froze, startled by the curt knock on the door.

“Come in!” Kozlóv sung out, throwing the bedding over Scaarbach as he immediately ducked under the covers once more.

The door creaked open, “Oh uh, I didn’t mean to disturb you, Mr. Kozlóv,” Bodkin said awkwardly, “I am just here to remind you that you are cordially invite to take your breakfast in the dining hall with the others this morning. It will start in half an hour.”

“Oh,” Kozlóv replied, “Thank you.”

“Mr. Bach is also invited, although I’ve been unable to find him in his quarters,” Bodkin coughed stiffly, “I hope you don’t think it too toward for me to assume th——”

“I haven’t seen him since last night,” Kozlóv lied.

“Oh… ah… I see,” Bodkin said, “Very well, my good chap, if you do see him, I hope you pass along the message. I’ve become quite fond of him in the years, it’d be a shame if he left before I had a chance to properly say good bye.”

“I’ll let him know,” Kozlóv agreed, “If I see him in time.”

“Yes, thank you,” Bodkin continued, “I hope you have a pleasant morning,” the door clicked behind him.

“He’s quite fond of you,” Kozlóv echoed, chuckling to himself.

Scaarbach sat up once again, properly awake, and pawed for wherever he had put his spectacles.

Kozlóv reached over to his bed side drawers, “Here,” he said, delicately putting the spectacles on Scaarbach’s face.

Scaarbach looked around the room, noticing their clothes strewn in every direction on the floor, “Ah,” he exhaled, realising Bodkin absolutely would have known he was there, “I’m going to need to borrow a shirt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for part 2 of the White Rabbit. I hope to have part 3 ready as soon as possible but I'll be honest with you... I've been going through it these last few months and I need a bit of a break to actually get some writing done. I don't know when I'll be back with the next and final instalment of the White Rabbit but I _do_ have one or two other mini fics I have ready to go that I'll post when I feel the time is right. (Minus one of them since it's already been in my drafts for nearly a month and only has a couple days before it'll be deleted.)
> 
> Thanks very much for interest and comments, they really go far to keep a guy motivated and focused on a project.


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